


Antiquity

by IronSparrow99



Series: The Alexandria Saga [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (duh), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Bobby Singer, Dean has a friend, Gen, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Season 1 Spoilers, Strong Female Characters, Supernatural Elements, and they aren't dating, season one AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronSparrow99/pseuds/IronSparrow99
Summary: What if Cassie wasn't Dean's only "old friend"? Enter Alexandria: she's kicking supernatural butt and taking demonic names. She knew the Winchesters, once, but they left - and that was that. Or so she thought. But then a certain hunter waltzes into a bar, ten years later, asking for her help in finding his father. Can she dive back in? Does she even have a choice in the matter?***ON HIATUS. Sorry. Muse has gone on vacation to...somewhere. I think maybe Hogwarts? Or 1832 Paris?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. It belongs to it's respective writers. However, I own any original characters, and any plot devices you don't recognize.

_July 1995_

_Gettysburg, Pennsylvania_

.

There was something in the woods. The was something _crashing through_ the woods.

The moon shone down brightly upon the dense forest, bathing every leaf in an eerie silver light as the leaves themselves trembled and shook with the force of whatever was raging through the trees.

Weaving between the trees, a smaller figure faded in and out of the moonlight. It was a girl, sixteen years of age, with dark brunette hair that was kept short and choppy and eyes of a sharp amber color that could pierce the soul, given the inclination.

Those eyes were currently alight with anxiety, topped off with just a little fear.

“Dean!” the girl hollers. “Hurry the hell up!”

A second figure bolts through the woods – a boy. Also sixteen, the boy was what some might call "handsome", and others, "really, _really_ handsome". He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lightly tanned. He had hair the color of wet sand, and eyes of a mesmerizing, indescribable shade of green.

“I’m trying!” he shouts, catching up to the girl and grabbing her wrist, pulling her ahead and into a building marked Visitor’s Center. “In here!”

The two teens skid into the building, quickly sliding the heaviest piece of furniture – a display case – in front of the door.

"I can't believe," the girl pants, sinking into a crouch, "that we're in Gettysburg – _the_ Gettysburg – and we're hunting a werewolf, of all things."

Next to her, the boy lets out a snort as pulls a gun from the waistband of his jeans and checks it for silver bullets. "Yeah, well, you better start believing, because the Big Bad Wolf wants us for a midnight snack."

The girl grins as she pulls out her own gun. "You know what I mean. I mean, this is the Holy Grail for spirits – on the east coast, anyway – and we're after a _werewolf._ "

"I don't really think Fluffy took that into consideration," the boy argues. "What're you gonna do, go up to him and go, 'excuse me, Mr. Werewolf, but can you-'"

He's interrupted by a loud _bang_ just outside the door, followed by a long, low howl.

"We have company," the girl mutters quietly, flicking the safety off on her gun as the boy does the same.

"On three. One...two..."

Before he can get to "three", the door shatters inwards, the silhouette of a massive, wolf-like creature filling the doorframe.

The beast lunges forward, swiping the girl aside as if she was a mere gnat and fixing its sights on the boy, who quickly raises his gun and takes aim at the creature. Before he can shoot, however, the werewolf roars and swipes a hand – _a paw_ – out, batting the gun out of the boy’s hand and slicing at his forearm.

The boy grunts and squeezes his eyes shut; before he can go for the knife on his belt, the beast lunges again, slamming the boy into the ground and baring its teeth, the snarling, slobbering jaws getting closer and closer to his throat--

"Hey, Fido!" A voice shouts, and the beast turns to see the girl standing, a gun held in rock-steady hands.

The boy all but forgotten, the werewolf starts towards the girl; before it can move more than a few feet, two gunshots ring out and a furry carcass drops to the floor, slowly shifting from a wolf back into a local tour guide.

"Dean!" the girl shouts, stepping over the body as she rushes to the boy's side. "Dean?"

"Calm down, Lexi," the boy groans as he sits up. "'M alright."

"Sure," the girl scoffs, unconvinced. She gently takes his forearm and pulls it towards her. "Let me see, you idiot."

"I'm _fine_ ," the boy insists, pulling arm away. "Where's my dad?"

The girl frowns. "I...don't know. He said he'd be right behind us, but-"

She's cut off by the sound of footsteps, and both teens scramble to their feet, leveling weapons at the doorway.

An older man steps into the building, hands raised in surrender. His eyes fall on the body sprawled in the center of the room. "I see you did it."

"Yes sir," the boy replies with a nod. "Dad?"

"Are you both okay?" the man asks, carefully watching the gash on the boy's arm and the lump forming on the girl's head.

"Just fine, Mr. Winchester," the girl assures him with a smile. "Can we go now? Please?"

The man nods. "Alright. You know where the car is, Alexandria. Dean, put a bandage on that when you get to the motel."

"Yes sir," the boy repeats, starting towards the doorway. The girl follows closely, keeping one eye on her companion, just in case.

Within a few minutes, the three people fade into the night, the only sign that they were ever there being a broken door, a broken display case, and a body soon to be burned.

.

_The next morning..._

A boy looks up at a car as it stops in front of a motel, the driver – a dark-haired, amber-eyed girl – steps out, juggling three cups of coffee and her keys.

"Hey!" The green-eyed boy greets, accepting one of the coffees and taking a sip. "You are a goddess."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye." Her eyes drift over to where the man was loading bags into the trunk of a black Chevy Impala. "You are leaving aren't you."

It isn't a question, but the boy responds anyway. "Yeah. We've got to. The cops are..."

"I know," the girl sighs. "Where're you headed to?"

"Baltimore. There might be a poltergeist stirring up some trouble," the boy reports. "We're gonna go check it out."

"You sound excited about that," the girl teases with a smile.

"It's my job," he reminds her with a pointed look. "It's yours, too. Speaking of, what's the next stop on your map?"

"I'm headed south," the girl admits. "To Spartanburg, North Carolina - they may or may not have an issue at a local college."

"An issue?"

The girl scratches the back of her neck with a sheepish look decorating her face. "I, um, don't quite...know what it is yet."

"This is what you get when you hunt by yourself," the boy sighs. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us?"

"I'm sure," the girl promises. "Your dad's already got two hungry mouths to feed. He doesn't need a third. I can't do that to you."

"We could deal," the boy offers. "It wouldn't be too hard. I..."

The girl silences him with a sharp look. "You do your job, I need to do mine."

The boy gives her a long look before sighing, "I guess. Dad was right, you know. When he said it's not worth it to make friends."

The girl nods silently and holds out another coffee cup. "Speaking of, give this to him, will you? Tell him I said thanks. And say hi to your brother for me."

The boy nods, and a beat of silence passes before he says, "I'm probably never gonna see you again."

"Probably not," the girl agrees with a shrug. "That's the way things are."

"I hate that part," he sighs.

"Dean!" The man packing the bags calls. "Sammy's almost done checking us out. Five minutes!"

"Yes sir!" he calls back before turning to the girl. "Hey, um, you – you were cool."

"Thanks. You...were an ass."

The boy snorts. "Wow, thanks. I pour out my soul, and you insult me. But seriously, try not to get killed out there."

"Will do," she nods. "You too. And take care of yourself, Dean."

"I will," he promises, just as a car horn blares. With a nod, the boy stands and nods at the girl, walking towards the Impala.

"Dean!" She stops him. "Wait."

"What?" The boy turns around as the girl stands up and takes the steps to stand in front of him.

The girl opens up her mouth as if to say something, only to close it again and repeat the pattern. She reaches out a hand, lowers it slightly, and finally claps the boy on the shoulder with a silent nod.

The boy returns the nod and steps away, backing up towards the Impala before he turns around and climbs in the passenger seat.

The girl stands back and watches as the car pulls out of the parking lot, watching as it rolls down the street.

The girl stands and she watches until the taillights fade into the dust.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's bookmarked or even viewed this story so far. Glad you enjoyed the prologue, here's the next chapter!
> 
> This should be updated every other day, by the way. I have ten chapters pre-written and posted on fanfiction.net, if you want to read it over there.

_~Ten Years Later~_

_Eugene, Oregon_

.

_“She’s my cherry pie! Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise…!”_

The tinkling of the little bell above the door is almost drowned out by the music being blasted from the concert-level speakers near the pool table. People were milling around in the dim light, either buzzed or flat-out hammered. It wasn’t that late, really, but it was a Friday night in a bar at the edge of town where no one ever came anyways.

I let out a deep breath, trying not to choke on the smell of cigar smoke that hung in the air and take a seat at the bar, signaling for my usual.

As I was being served, I take a good look at the people around me. In the back of the room, there were the usual make out sessions; then you had your pool players – I couldn’t tell who was winning, as they all looked like they were failing miserably; there was a group of men at a table a few feet away, caught in the throes of an energetic story; just down the bar, there was an off-duty waitress chatting with a bartender.

And then there was me.

“Hey, pretty lady, what’re you drinking?”

And that guy, apparently.

I swivel around in my seat and nearly choke on my drink, my eyebrows raising into my hairline as I put a face to the voice – and recognize it.

“What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously. “Why are you looking for me?”

“Hey, now,” Dean Winchester raises his hands. “Don’t get all hostile on me, Lexi. I just want to chat with an old friend. Is that a crime now?”

I give him a careful look before waving a hand towards the empty stool next to me. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” He gives me a million-watt grin that seems to light up the room a little. “What’re you drinking?”

“A virgin rum and coke on the rocks,” I deadpan, taking a sip of the bubbly liquid.

“Pansy,” Dean sighs, waving the bartender – Jerry – over. “I’ll take a bottle of whatever’s popular, please. Thanks.”

I wait until he’s been served to turn to face him fully. “Cut the crap, Winchester. Why. Are. You. Here?”

“Straight to business, huh?” he teases, but I shoot him down with an arched eyebrow. “Alright, alright, fine. What says I’m here for a reason? Can’t I just stop in and see a friend?”

“I knew you once, for a week and a half, ten years ago,” I remind him. “And you could’ve, I don’t know, _picked up the phone_ if you wanted to talk to me that badly,” I continue. “Instead, you came all the way out to Oregon, and to a bar that you wouldn’t have found if you weren’t looking for it. You want something.”

He takes a long swig out of his bottle and gives me a smirk. “Good to see you’re still sharp as ever.”

“That’s just instincts,” I retort. “Are you on a job?”

“It’s…complicated. Are you?”

“I am,” I nod. “Or, I was. There was a family of spirits killing people in town.”

“That’s cheery,” he snorts. “And so you showed up and…?”

“And the spirits are no more,” I shrug. “It was fairly easy. I haven’t really encountered anything major in a few years, to be honest.”

"Do you want something major?" Dean asks in a casual tone, like he was just asking if I wanted that new promotion at work, but I could tell there was something more to it.

“Depends,” I narrow my eyes at him. “What is ‘major’? And if it’s major, why are you here alone?”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes briefly, sipping his beer before answering me. “That’s why I’m here, actually. You remember my dad?”

I bite my lip, eyes falling to the bar top as I cast my mind back to 1995. “Uh, yeah. John. He was…interesting.”

“He gets that a lot,” Dean admits, chuckling. “So, about a week ago, Dad and I were in Jericho, California. We were going after a spirit – a woman in white. It wasn't a big thing, so Dad headed out to check on some stuff regarding the chick while I stayed behind to canvas the town and chat up some people. Dad was only supposed to be gone for a night – said he'd call if it was gonna be longer. I mean, I'm twenty-six years old, I should be able to handle myself for a few days, right? So-"

"Dean." I wave a hand in front of his face. "Focus. So, a few days ago, your dad leaves to go shank this chick."

Dean takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Right. The day passes, and he doesn't come back. At first, I thought maybe his car ran out of gas or broke down, or something small like that. And then he didn't call, but I figured he was in a dead spot or something. But then..."

"But then some more days passed, and you realized that you suck at lying to yourself," I suggest.

"Basically, yeah," Dean sighs, taking another swig from his bottle. "I looked around for a few more days, but I couldn't find anything. I even tried some of Dad's old contacts, but they didn't have anything."

"So you decided to get ahold of your own contacts," I surmise, rolling an ice cube on my tongue. " _Why,_ may I ask, was your first instinct to come to me?"

"I... uh," his eyes flick down to the bar and then back to me. "I need your help. To find Dad, yeah, but also...do remember my brother?"

"Yeah," I give a half-grin. "Sammy, right?"

"He prefers 'Sam' nowadays," Dean corrects. "If you aren't up to date on the latest in Winchester World News, he...left a few years ago. Left me, left Dad, left this life. He applied to Stanford. Got accepted – full ride and everything." Dean gives me a proud grin, the undeniable light of a big brother shining in his eyes.

I return the grin and chuckle lightly before frowning again. "So how does this include me?"

Dean grimaces and tightens his grip on his beer bottle. "Well, I do need your help with Dad. But I also need Sam's help. And maybe – maybe if it isn't just me, he'll be more open to the idea, y'know?"

I tilt my head. "So, let me get this straight. You want me to help you find your dad, who has disappeared without any rhyme, reason, or leads as to where he is. But before I do that, you want me to step into the middle of a familial dispute that isn't mine and has nothing to do with me. Do I have that right?"

Dean grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I – I get it, if you don't like me, for whatever reason. Hell, I get it if you don't like my dad – half the time, I wouldn't blame you. But..." his Adam's apple bobs and Dean fixes me with a pleading gaze. "You're one of the best hunters I know. And I need your help...Alexandria."

I hold his gaze before looking down into my glass. "How hard was that for you?"

"Very."

I bite my lip and sigh - that seemed to be a theme here. "Alright. You've pleaded your case. Quit the puppy-dog eyes routine, please. You’re killing me.”

He straightens up with a smirk. “Well, they don’t call me a lady killer for nothin’.”

“And you’re so modest, too,” I tell him. “Okay. I’ll help you out, but I need to tie up a few things first.”

Dean’s face falls slightly, but he nods. “Sure. Need any help?”

“Nah,” I shake my head, taking out my wallet and slapping a wad of bills onto the counter before I get up. “I just need to pack and make a few calls, then we can get moving.”

"Great." Dean falls into step behind me as we exit the bar, following me over to where I'd parked earlier.

I smirk as we round the corner and he lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “Like it?”

“Like it?” he gives me an incredulous look. “This is a badass car. I’d forgotten you drove one.”

“Yep,” I nod with a proud smile, running a hand over the hood. “She’s a beauty.”

I drove a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 302, with 350 horsepower, a top speed of 115 miles per hour, and the ability to go from zero to sixty in about seven seconds. The car itself was gunmetal gray, gleaming in the sun and glinting under the streetlights at night.

It’s the only car I’d ever driven, since I was sixteen until now, and it probably was one of my most prized possessions. It wasn’t even bought illegally, a fact that I was extremely proud of.

I look up at Dean. “Where are you parked?”

“Over there.” He points just down the street to where a familiar ’67 Chevy Impala was parked. “I followed you in.”

“Stalker,” I snort, unlocking my car and ducking in. “Just follow me, alright?”

“You got it,” he nods, stepping away from the curb as I turn the key and smirk as the engine purrs to life.

We were on the road not long after that, and I lead the Impala to where I’d been sleeping for the past week – a shady little no-tell motel named “Lucky’s” where at least half the residents had to be drug dealers, and the rest were most likely hookers.

_You don’t need luxury,_ I remind myself as I park in front of room 14 and climb out. _You just need a bed._

I watch as Dean parks the Impala and meets me by the door. “Charming place.”

“Isn’t it?” I ask as I unlock the door and step inside. The room itself was a bit of a mess – there was a pile of bloody clothes in the middle of the floor, piles of books and papers on the rickety little table in the corner, and the twin bed was a mess of moth-eaten blankets.

“I restate my point,” Dean declares from the doorway.

“Er…” I duck my head as I start gathering the stuff on the table together. “Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“Oh, no, it’s not a problem,” he says with a dismissive wave. He enters the room, nudging the blood-stained clothes with the toe of his boot. “Is this your blood?”

“Why?” I look up from folding the creases out of a local newspaper. “You concerned?”

He just shrugs, and I roll my eyes. “Some of it is, yes. The spirits preferred method of killing was dismemberment, which was…messy.” I wrinkle my nose slightly at the memory, and Dean laughs.

“I bet. Do you need any help with that?"

I glance down at the stack of books on the table - dusty, heavy, old books. "If you're willing to do my grunt work, sure. I need these put in here," I instruct, tossing a faded green duffle bag at him. "And be careful, they aren't mine."

"Who's are they?" he asks, flipping through one of the books.

"Their last official owner was the Louisiana State University library."

"And unofficially?"

"I've had them for a few months," I admit with a slight smirk.

"Whoa," Dean laughs. "We've got a badass on our hands. _Book theft_ \- I'm so scared."

I roll my eyes at him and finish packing my clothes, zipping my backpack up and slinging it over my shoulder.

"Whatever. Come on, we need to get going. Where are we headed, again?"

"Palo Alto, California. Woodland Arms Apartments, unit 4C."

I stop halfway between the door and my car. "That's, like, eight hours away."

"Is it?"

I shoot a glare at the back of Dean's head. "You want to make that in one night?"

"I've done worse," he calls over his shoulder.

I don't have a response to that, because I know that he knows that I've pulled later nights and longer drives than this one. All hunters do - that was life. Sleep was a luxury.

Quietly cursing my luck, Dean Winchester, and all the deities ever, I climb into my car and start it up, pulling out behind the Impala and turning on the radio to a local classic's station.

_"Life is a highway...I want to ride it all night long! If you're going my way, I want to drive it all night long..."_

I glare at the radio and shut it off, plunging the car into silence.

This was shaping up to be a long drive - and it hadn't even been five minutes.

* * *

Eight and a half hours later, a '69 Mustang and a '67 Impala pull to a stop on a quiet street, just across the road from Woodland Arms Apartments.

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" I ask, getting out of the car. "Dean, it's the middle of the night."

"Sam will be awake," the elder hunter assures me. "Trust me."

"Awake _before_ or _after_ we break into his apartment?" I ask, following him across the street. "And what's to say he won't just shoot you?"

"Because he won't, alright?" Dean sighs. "What's with the Twenty Questions?"

"You're the one that wanted my help," I huff at him as we approach the front door.

Dean makes swift work of the lock, and I follow him inside the dark, empty lobby and up the first flight of stairs.

"2A, 2B, 2C..." I watch the unit numbers go up. "Which one are we looking for again?"

"This one," Dean announces, stopping in front of a door marked 4C. He looks over at me. "Cover me, okay?"

I nod and open my mouth to protest, one more time, that this was an extremely bad idea, but Dean just nods, picks the lock, and charges inside, leaving me to follow if only to make sure the idiot didn't do anything stupid.

Like, for instance, knock over a lamp. Which then meant that the element of surprise had been lost, as was evident by the heavy footsteps in the hallway.

I jump back in surprise as, suddenly, Dean is tackled by something big, heavy, and pissed off.

He's shoved against the wall, held just a few inches off the ground.

"What are you doing in my apartment?" Sam Winchester growls. "And what do you-"

He breaks off suddenly, eyes going wide.

_"Dean?"_


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not entirely happy with this chapter – it’s mainly filler, and I’m not good at that. Action will start next chapter, I promise. Tell me what you think in the comment section!
> 
> (Seriously, please comment! I want your feedback - good, bad, meh.)

It’s probably important to mention that the last time I saw Sam Winchester, he was a slightly chubby twelve-year-old kid, on summer break and just about to enter seventh grade at whatever school he ended up at next. That is the Sam Winchester I remember.

_This_ Sam? The one pinning his older brother up against a wall on a hot evening in October, in a decently-sized, homey, unfamiliar apartment? He bore no traces whatsoever of that Sam. I didn’t recognize him.

Obviously, you had your physical changes. The Sam I had known had been a shrimp: short and scrawny, just beginning to develop those gangly limbs that were a curse upon all teenage boys. This Sam was…not. He was at least a few inches taller than his brother, who wasn’t exactly tiny. He had broad, muscular shoulders and a similarly built chest. But most importantly, there was something in his eyes as he pinned Dean – it was the look of a knee-jerk reaction, mixed with a certain sadness, almost like he didn’t _want_ his default setting to be ‘fight’.

The Sam I’d known had definitely not had that look in his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam repeats, loosening his grip enough for Dean's feet to hit the floor again. "What are you doing here?"

"We need your help," I explain, speaking up for the first time. I'm not surprised when Sam tenses up again, stepping towards me.

"Easy, tiger," Dean says, putting a hand on Sam's arm. "She's with me. This is Lexi. And she's right – we do need your help."

"I-"

"Sam?"

I whirl around to see a girl – Sam's age, blonde – standing in the doorway. Sam's girlfriend, most likely. She was pretty, I guess. In a really normal way.

Which, if Sam went to college in order to escape hunting, might be exactly what he wanted.

"Sam," she repeats, "what's going on?"

"Good question," I mumble under my breath.

"Jess," Sam stutters. "Uh, this is my brother, Dean. I told you about him. And, um, Lexi, apparently."

"An old friend of mine," Dean offers. "Look, I hate to break this up, but I really need to talk to you, Sammy. In private."

"No. Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of both of us," Sam declares, moving to stand by Jess' side.

"Alright..." Dean meets my eyes with a smirk before turning back to his brother. "Dad's on a hunting trip...and he hasn't been home in a few days."

"We really could use all hands on deck," I tell him, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

Sam fixes his brother with a pensive look before nodding once. "Jess, excuse us, please."

The girl nods and pads into the kitchen, leaving the three of us alone in the dark living room.

"I'll go talk to her," I sigh. "You two talk this out. And try not to kill each other, alright?"

With that, I make my way into the kitchen, nudging the door open to find Jess sitting on the countertop, messing with something in her hands.

"Um, hey," I greet, shuffling into the room. "Jess, right?"

She startles, almost falling off the counter as she looks at me. "Oh my gosh, I didn't see you there. Uh, yeah. I'm Jessica. Jessica Monroe. You're...Lexi, right?"

"Alexandria, actually," I admit. "Call me anything but Alex. You're Sam's girlfriend?"

A blinding, ear-to-ear smile takes over the other girl's face. "Yeah. For two years now, actually. He's...he's great. And you're...Dean's old friend?"

I nod, leaning back against the counter. "Essentially, yes. I knew him when we were teenagers."

Jess nods, glancing at the door. "Do...do you know what they're talking about in there?"

I heave a heavy sigh and push off the counter, grabbing a chair from the bistro-style table and taking a seat.

"I've got a general idea," I explain. "Not much, though. I mean, Dean recruited me out of a bar in Oregon," I glance at my watch. "Nine hours ago, now. I just got pulled into this. But, I can tell you what I know."

I settle into the chair and face Jess. "Sam and Dean's father is a...hunter. Big game – elk, bear, deer, you know. He's been at it for over twenty years now, and from what I understand, can get fairly obsessed. I mean, like, scarily obsessed. I don't know why," I lie as Jess opens her mouth with a curious look on her face.

"And because of this obsession," I continue, "the man has a tendency to disappear on hunting trips for days at a time. From what Dean tells me, he usually leaves a note, saying where he's going and when he'll be back. This time, though, he didn't."

"So you're saying this could be nothing?" Jess asks. "Just another obsessed hunting trip?"

"Maybe," I shrug. "Probably. For all we know, he could be holed up in a cabin somewhere, with bottles of the hard stuff to pass the time. We aren't really sure, but all we need to do is check." I give her a reassuring smile. "We'll have Sam back to you, safe and sound, in just a few days."

"That's good to hear," she says with a nod. "This was all just so sudden, you know? I mean, earlier tonight, we were at a Halloween party, and then his brother's breaking into our apartment at four in the morning, spouting something about a hunting trip and a missing person..." she trails off and gives me a bewildered look.

"Yeah," I laugh. "I told Dean it was a bad idea, I promise. But..." I give her a palm-up, 'what can you do' shrug.

I glance at the door to the living room again. "They should be finishing up by now." Suddenly, an idea occurs to me, and I pull out my cellphone. "I can keep you updated if you want. On how things are going and stuff..."

Jess nods eagerly, and we quickly trade numbers just before the door opens and Sam pokes his head in. "Hey. You can come out now."

She giggles and nods and I follow her back out to the living room, stopping by Dean's side while Sam and Jess put their heads together.

"She okay?" Dean asks quietly, watching the couple from across the room.

"Surprisingly okay, actually," I tell him in the same tone. "She might not look it, but she's tough. Good for Sam, I think."

He nods in agreement, and we watch as Sam and Jess disappear down the hallway.

"They had better not be ducking out for a quickie," Dean complains, plopping onto the couch. "I've got better things to do with my time than sitting here while my brother gets loosened up."

"Your faith in your brother astounds me," I tell him with a chuckle. "Where are we headed after this?"

"Jericho, California," he reports. "Just under six hours south of here, if we push it. We can stop for breakfast in a few hours."

"Sounds good," I nod. "You really think he's there?"

"It's the most I've got," he sighs, and the room falls silent.

After a few minutes, Sam walks back in, looking decidedly unruffled with a duffel bag in one hand and a backpack on his back.

"Can we go now?" he asks with a sigh. I nod, and Dean almost runs me over in his haste to get out of the apartment – whether it was urgency at finding John, or his haste to escape the skin-crawling normalcy of this place, I didn’t know.

I lead the way down the stairs, staying a few steps ahead but within earshot, just in case.

"I swore I'd get out of this, Dean," Sam says, irritated.

"Aw, come on, it isn't that bad," Dean quips.

There's a pause before Sam replies, "When I told Dad there was something in my closet, he gave me a .45."

"What else did you want him to do?" Dean asks incredulously. "Tell you there was nothing to be afraid of?"

"I was nine, Dean!" Sam exclaims. "Yes, that is exactly what he should have done!"

I purse my lips and turn on my heel. "Excuse me for interrupting, boys, but we've got a job to do. Also, I should probably mention that we _broke in,_ Dean, and the police might be on their way as we speak. So can we get a move on, please?"

Both boys give me surprised looks, as if they'd forgotten I was there, and nod.

"Good," I nod. "You can finish your chick-flick moment in the car."

I pick up the pace down the stairs, ignoring Dean's mutterings about how “that wasn't a chick-flick moment because guys didn't _do_ that sort of thing, Lexi.”

We slip out of a side exit and head for the cars, Dean immediately popping open the Impala's trunk and secret compartment, while I head over to the Mustang and hop in.

As I start the car, my phone chirps, and I flip it open to see a message from my newest contact, Jess.

_Take care of him. Please?_

My lips quirk up in a grin as I tap out a reply – _Will do. I'll text you later_ – and flip my phone shut, tossing it onto the seat next to me.

I reach for the radio and turn up the music – a rock station this time. Thankfully.

 

* * *

 

 

Around the halfway point between Palo Alto and Jericho, a collective decision was made to stop for fuel, both human and otherwise.

We pulled into a roadside gas station somewhere along I-5, populated only with a tumbleweed and a beat-up truck in the corner of the parking lot.

“You have the same look on your face as Dean gets when he’s judging cars.”

I jump in surprise, smacking my head against the roof of the car. Scowling, I turn to face Sam, who was standing just outside the driver’s side window. “I think I’m gonna put a bell on you.”

He gives a slightly nervous chuckle. “Maybe you just weren’t paying attention.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I deadpan, fighting down a smirk.

“Keep telling yourself that, maybe you’ll believe it,” he returns in the same tone, some of the Winchester sass coloring his tone before he blushes. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I laugh. “I hang around Dean. I am impervious to your snark.”

“I’d bet,” he muses. “I’m Sam, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” I assure him. “I’m Lexi. Alexandria, actually, but please leave that for when I’m on my deathbed.”

“I know what you mean,” Sam agrees. “No one ever calls me Samuel, which is my name. I mean, you probably knew that, because what else could Sam be short for?”

I decide to put the poor kid out of his misery. “Samantha. I’m not to bite your head off, you know.” I pull my lips back in a toothy smile. “See? No fangs.”

This elicits a laugh from the younger Winchester, and I give myself a pat on the back as Dean comes out of the store, arms laden with junk food.

“Breakfast!” he calls, tossing me a bag of Doritos and a soda. “Sammy, you want anything?”

“It’s _Sam_ ,” Sam sighs. “And no. Do I want to know how you paid for that?”

“I didn’t; Hector McCloud did,” Dean says with a wink. “He’s a charming guy. Got us a discount on the sodas.”

“Oh, god,” I groan as I get out of my car, grabbing a credit card from the glove compartment and heading for the pump. “Do I want to know what you did to the poor cashier?”

“Well, that depends…”

“Never mind, I don’t wanna know!” I interrupt him. “Forget I asked.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean quips, tearing open a bag of chips as he kept an eye on the pump that was feeding the Impala.

I return my attention to my own meter, catching something out of the corner of my eye. I turn around to see Sam watching me and Dean with an unreadable expression. “What?”

Sam, jolts. “What? Oh. Nothing, it’s just…it’s like there are two of him now.”

“I have more sense than he does,” I snark. “Common sense, fashion sense…” I duck the bag of chips that flies towards my head, laughing as I finish with the gas and slide back in the car, only to find that Sam hadn’t moved.

“Sam,” Dean calls from the Impala. “C’mon!”

But Sam hesitates, looking down at me. “Can – can I ride with you instead?”

I raise a curious eyebrow but shrug. "I don't see why you can't. Hop in.” I roll down the driver’s side window and poke my head out. “He’s with me!”

“You’re sure?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. I’m _fine._ I don’t mind the company.”

“Just don’t get too comfortable in there,” he teases. “I need your heads on the case.”

One quick rude gesture later, I roll up the window and pull out onto the road, the Impala in my rearview mirror.

“You can put on music, if you want,” I offer Sam. “The CD’s are in the back.”

Sam twists around in his seat and digs around for a few seconds, coming back with a large black binder, filled to the brim with plastic CD sleeves.

“At least you actually have CD’s,” Sam remarks as he flips through the binder. “Dean’s cassette tapes are still stuck in the 80’s.”

“Well, the Impala _is_ from 1967, and CD radios weren’t standard in cars until 1985,” I explain. “The only reason I’ve got CD’s is because I took the time to change out the radio. Dean, apparently, did not.” I glance over at Sam to find him staring at me with an odd look in his eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he denies. “Please tell me you have more than rock in here.”

“There should be some pop, I think.”

Sam eventually finds an Elton John CD and puts it in, filling the car with _I’m Still Standing_ , all the way from 1978.

About halfway through the song, Sam speaks up again. “So, you and Dean seem like good friends.”

I hum noncommittally. “I guess. I mean, I knew him when we were 16 – I was 15, actually. And then he disappeared for ten years until yesterday.”

Sam nods with a small sigh. “That’s the way it was for us when we were growing up – we moved and moved again, and any friends we’d managed to gain were lost. That’s why I asked. I’m surprised he managed to remember you among his many, many...old friends.”

The corners of my lips quirk into a slight smirk. "I can't tell you why, honestly. I mean, we never – we were never…" I leave the sentence hanging, squashing down the heat that rose on my cheeks. “I can’t tell you why, but he popped into a shady little bar at eight p.m. last night and practically begged me to help.”

Sam nods again, but adds, “But here’s the thing: Dean – the Dean I know – doesn’t like working with strangers, _Especially_ not on a case as close to the vest as this one. So…why you? Why bring in anyone at all? What could he have possibly said? I mean, no offense, I’m sure you’re great at what you do, but…”

I brush him off with a flick of a hand. “None taken. I get it. And for the record, he said that I was ‘one of the best hunters he knew,’ and that he ‘needed my help.’”

“In those words?”

I nod.

“He _actually_ said he needed help? Your help?” Sam asks, bewildered.

“Astonishing, isn’t it?” I murmur dryly; except, it really was. From what little I really understood about Dean Winchester, I could gather that getting him to admit heartfelt things like that was about as hard as herding cats.

“If Dad’s just on an ordinary job,” Sam continues, unaware of my thoughts, “then why is Dean treating it like it’s something bigger?”

“That’s a good question,” I sigh, pressing on the gas just a little more and hearing the engine roar.

The sooner we got to Jericho, the sooner we could start making something of this case, and the better it would be – for everyone.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to CuppaTea13 for reviewing the last chapter (and the one before that, and the one before that...), and to all those who have read this story so far. It means a lot. 
> 
> Please keep commenting, and enjoy the story!

We made it to Jericho in good time, arriving just after ten in the morning thanks to the back roads – there was some kind of accident on the main road in, leading to about a mile of back-ups and slow-moving traffic.

I park the car outside of the office of the latest reasonably-priced motel and step out, walking over to where Sam and Dean were unpacking their trunk. “So what’s the plan?”

“Check in first,” Dean instructs, slamming the trunk closed. “Then we need to find out more about the job. Names, dates, locations; the usual.”

“So treat this like any other job,” I surmise, opening up the door to the front office.

“Until we find out more about Dad, yes,” Dean agrees, following me in and grabbing a copy of the local paper from a stand inside the office. “What’d you expect, for us to storm into town and run around like headless chickens? I don’t think so.”

“I was just checking,” I grumble. As we approach the front desk, I flash the receptionist a charming grin. “Hi. One double room for two weeks, please.”

The man nods, accepting the credit card Dean slides across the counter, giving it a quizzical look. “You guys having a reunion or something?”

The three of us trade confused glances, and Sam asks, “Sorry, what?”

“There was a man in here about a week ago,” he explains, “named Angus. Same last name. You guys having a reunion or something?”

There’s a second of pause, and I can practically feel Sam and Dean trading looks behind my back before I step forward, nodding. “Yeah, actually. These are Angus’ boys, Ethan and Hector, and I’m their cousin Marie,” I tell him, the lies rolling off my tongue as smooth as silk. “We’re here for the reunion, but we didn’t know where Uncle Angus was staying. Did he book a room here?”

“For an entire month,” the man confirms.

“Fantastic,” I chirp, spirits rising. If John had booked a room for that long, he might’ve been on to something big. And if he was on to something big, then maybe he was still in town, if not somewhere near. Case closed, John’s fine, Sam gets to go back to Stanford in time for his interview on Monday. “Can you tell us which room, please? We need to grab something from his room for the picnic later.”

“And can we get a spare key, please?” Sam adds. “Dad can be forgetful.”

“Sure thing.” The man hands over a set of keys, which Dean tucks into his pocket. “Room 12. Just down the row to the right.”

I nod and thank him before quickly ushering Sam and Dean out of the office.

“Cousins?” Sam protests as soon as we’re outside. “Really? We don’t look anything like you, _Marie_.”

“Seconds cousins, then,” I say dismissively as we reach the door marked 12. “Here it is.” I snatch the keys from Dean and unlock the door, swinging it open. “Let’s seen what your Dad left then… _Ethan. Hector._ ”

Sam just rolls his eyes and brushes past Dean, who was snickering, and I, flipping on the lights and stopping in the middle of the room. “ _Whoa_. Guys, you need to come and see this.”

I step around Dean and meet Sam in the middle of the room, eyes widening as I did so. I spin around, taking it all in – the newspaper clippings, the missing persons’ files, the various symbols scribbled on every available space of the four walls of the motel room.

“I think we found him,” I offer, rather unnecessarily. “Either that, or your dad’s taken a swan dive off the deep end.”

“I don’t think so,” Dean counters, taking one of the papers off the wall. “This is the case – the Woman in White.”

“Constance Welch,” I read over his shoulder. “Born August 5th, 1957. Died in 1981 – aged 24 – by jumping off Sylvania Bridge. You think she’s our chick?”

“Probably,” he guesses. “Over the past 24 years, she’s killed 10 guys – all on the same stretch of highway, usually at night.”

I nod, reading further down the page. When she was alive, Constance seemed to have a pretty nice life – husband, two young kids, probably and idyllic house, too. Then, suddenly, she places a 911 call on the night of her death, stating that her kids had drowned. After that, she takes a header off a bridge, and the rest, they say, is history. She goes on to take her anger out on men that were unfaithful, just like her husband had been – killing them violently and bloody.

I narrow my eyes at the victim profiles – something wasn’t right. “Hey.”

“What’s up?” Sam asks, looking up at me from the newspaper article he was examining.

“These are all missing persons’ reports,” I point out, nodding at the ten victims’ profiles. “Not deceased _._ ”

“And if there was proof of a death, the Sheriff’s Office would’ve caught it,” Dean realizes, catching on to my train of thought. “You think she did something with the bodies?”

“No idea,” I shrug. “The only way to find out would be to check the crime scene. Any report on where on the Centennial that is?”

Sam suddenly pauses, looking like a deer in the headlights. “I think I know.” He hurries over the wall and plucks down the police report on the latest murder. “This was filed around midnight last night. What do you want to bet that the accident we passed on the way in was really the latest murder scene?”

I consider this for a moment before nodding. “It’s worth checking out."

Dean nods and stands, heading for the door. "Let's get going then. Lexi, you with us?"

"Yeah, just give me a second..." I trail off, rummaging around in my bag until I find what I'm looking for and pull out a black suede jacket, switching it for the hoodie I was currently wearing. "There. Now we can go."

Sam and Dean share a mystified look, and I roll my eyes as I brush past them. “It makes me look more professional. After all, I don’t think hoodies are up to dress code for…U.S. Marshals, you think?”

They nod, and I quickly trot over to my car and unlock it, reaching into the glove box and pulling out a zipper pencil pouch, picking out the ID card that declared me to be Amy Fitzgerald, of the United States Marshals Service.

With that in hand, I hop into the backseat of the Impala, running my hands over the leather. It was good to see that some things never changed, no matter how much time passed.

Dean drives us to the accident scene, about ten minutes away from the motel, and I raise an eyebrow at the mass of cop cars, busybodies, and yellow tape. 

"Would you look at that," I muse quietly. "I haven't seen this many cops doing their damn jobs since the first time I got arrested for breaking and entering."

"What?" Sam asks.

"What?" I repeat. "Come on, let's go."

I step out of the car, walking over to one of the cops on scene and flashing my badge. "U.S. Marshals. We're here about the latest missing persons case – it's related to a string of suspicious disappearances in this area."

The officer nods. "Of course. Right this way. We've already got the scene secured, although it is taking us a bit longer because of traffic and such."

"Just the type of shoddy work I'd expect from you yokels," Dean scoffs as he steps up to my side, giving the scene – and the officer before us – a superior look. The officer glares at him and stomps away, muttering under her breath.

I stomp on Dean's foot, giving him a glare. "Shut up."

"What?" he whispers. "You were the one ragging on them in the car."

I ignore him, jab him in the ribs, and walk away, effectively ending the conversation.

I pull on a pair of gloves I'd grabbed from my car as I approach the blood-spattered wreck.

"Victim's name is Troy Squire," Sam reports. "Born 1987, died...last night. There were no other witnesses, no major damage to the car..."

"And no body," I finish, peering inside the car at the blood covering the seats. "Can she do that?"

"Apparently," he sighs. "It's not unheard of."

I huff in frustration and straighten up, making my way over to where Dean was talking to a few officers. "Anything?"

"Nope," he denies, shaking his head. "They've dragged the river – no bodies."

"Looks like it's time to play a game of 'Hide and Go Seek' with a dead person," I sigh, ignoring the disturbed look the officer gives me. "Did the victim have any family, friends, anyone that would've known what happened? Or at least had suspicions?"

"Well, there were no witnesses to the actual accident itself," the officer admits, and I barely restrain a snort. _'Accident'. Yeah, right_. "But the last contact the victim had was to his girlfriend, Amy. Amy Hein – sheriff's daughter."

"Wonderful," I nod. "We'll be sure to check up on her. If that's all?"

The officer nods and returns to her business, and I lead Dean away. "So we need to check up on the girlfriend, make sure the victim really was unfaithful."

"Right, and we need to find out more about this Constance chick. She's probably got a husband, someone should talk to him. He was unfaithful, the sly dog, the only question is if-"

"Dean," I interrupt. "Yeah. Husband. Probably unfaithful, that's how it goes. And we need to find a body," I continue as we meet back up with Sam by the car. "If we find the body, we can tell how she's killing."

"And speaking of Constance, we need to find her grave ASAP," Sam adds, ducking into the passenger seat.

"We've got work to do, boys," I crow, sliding into the backseat. "And not a lot of time to do it in."

* * *

We got back to the motel without incident, and while I went back to my car to grab another bag, Sam tasked himself with gathering up all the information anyone had ever hear on one Constance B. Welch.

"She was married," he was saying as I walked back in. "To one Joseph Welch. He's still alive, but he isn't answering the number listed in the phone book under that name."

"Maybe he's just busy," I shrug. "We can check in later. For now, we need to find out more on our Woman in White."

I unzip the duffel bag slung over my shoulder and pull out a laptop. It was a rugged mishmash of parts; bits and pieces that had been scrounged up over the computer's five-year history. It was a veritable Frankenstein's monster, but it was all I had.

Smirking at Sam's slightly envious look, I take a seat on the edge of a bed and crack it open on my lap. "Alright, so. Constance Welch...where are you buried..." I open up the online newspaper and find her obituary, scrolling past the usual information about name, age, the cause of death, so on and so forth until I reach the bottom of the piece.

"God damn it all," I sigh. "Damn it, damn it, damn it. Look at this," I call the boys over.

Dean leans over my shoulder to read. "What's up?"

"'In accordance with the wishes of the remaining Welch family members, the location of Constance's grave will not be disclosed at this time,'" I read. "'Mr. Welch appreciates the condolences but kindly declines any visits to his place of residence.'"

"Damn," Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Way to make our jobs harder, dead chick. This probably means that the husband knows where she's buried. Sam, Lexi, you go talk to him. I will get us lunch."

"Yes, O Benevolent Dictator," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Get me a cheeseburger, will you?"

"You got it," he confirms, stepping out the door and shutting it behind him, leaving Sam and me in a quiet motel room.

"So," I sigh, setting my laptop aside and stretching out my limbs. "Do you wanna wait until after lunch to go interview the wayward spouse, or-"

I'm interrupted by a cellphone ringing, and Sam grabs his off the table and flips it open. "Yeah. Dean, it's literally been a minute – okay. Okay. Alright."

He presses a button and sets his phone down on the table. "You're on speaker."

_"Sam, Lexi,"_ Dean's voice echoes from the phone. _"Five-O. Get the hell out. Now."_

I bolt to my feet and grab my shoes off the floor – I didn't know what 'Five-O' meant, but I understood 'get the hell out, now' clearly enough.

"What?" Sam asks as I tug on my sneakers. "What about you?"

_"Well, they've got me,"_ Dean replies. _"But you two can get out. Go find Joseph."_

"Alright," Sam stutters. "I – yeah. Okay. Stay safe."

_"You too,"_ he replies, and the line goes dead.

"Sam?" I ask, tugging on my shoelaces. "What are we doing?"

"Five-O means cops," he explains in a rush, pulling on his jacket. "We need to run."

"There's a window in the bathroom," I tell him urgently. He crosses the room in two long strides, throwing open the bathroom door and trying the window. "It's locked."

"Not for long," I mutter, taking the knife from my back pocket and jimmying the lock, chipping the paint away until the rusted lock breaks and I fling the window open, diving out and hitting the ground in a heap.

"You okay?" Sam asks, climbing out behind me with more grace. I nod, clambering up, and glance behind us – I could hear voices, and I could see the tail end of a police car.

"This way," I whisper, breaking into a run in the other direction. Sam follows just behind me, making much less noise than a man of his stature should.

A few minutes of zigzagging through alleys later, I slow to a walk on a semi-busy street, almost making Sam crash into me.

"Warn a guy next time," he mutters. "You good?"

I run down a quick physical checklist – fingers, toes, all limbs, no holes, head in one piece.

"Yeah," I nod. "I'm good. You?"

"Good," he nods. "So what now?"

I sigh and settle into a leisurely pace down the street. "Now, we need to do what Dean said. You go interview the husband, I'll talk to the victim's girlfriend."

"What about Dean?" Sam asks, turning to face me as we walked. "He got _arrested_ , Lexi."

"Dean's a big boy," I reassure him. "He'll get himself out." Sam doesn't look convinced, and I turn around to face him, walking backward. "Look, Sammy-"

"It's _Sam_."

"Fine, _Sam_ ," I sigh. "Getting arrested isn't a big deal. Not in the hunting world. It may be to you, college boy," I add as he starts to protest. "But it isn't to me. Or to Dean. Hell, getting arrested for impersonation probably isn't the worst thing he's done. I know it isn't the biggest price on my head." I give him a wry smirk.

"So Dean can take care of himself," I finish. " _We_ need to interview some people. Come on, I'll drive you there..."

I stick a hand in my pocket, freezing when it comes back out empty. Forcing myself to take deep breaths, I quickly pat down every other pocket I had.

And come up with nothing.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," I snarl. "Come _on!_ "

"What?" Sam demands. "What is it?"

"Guess where my car keys are," I huff.

"In your – no. Don't tell me."

"In my other jacket," I sigh. "Which was in the motel room, which has undoubtedly been searched by now."

"Great," Sam sighs. "We won't have enough time to do everything if we walk. We need a car."

"And?" I snap. "Did you not just hear me say we don't _have_ one?"

"You do, actually," Sam informs me, a look of realization falling across his face.

"What?"

"You do have a car," he repeats. "Just not the keys."

"What are you – no. Sam, don't make me."

"Don't tell me you don't know how to hotwire a car."

"'Course I do," I scoff. "Don't insult me. I just don't want to mess with _mine._ It's _my_ car," I whine.

"It's also the only way we can get stuff done," he points out. It was logic, pure logic, but it was the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear.

After an intense staring contest – in which I had to crane my neck, Sam had to be part-giant or something – I back down, stuffing my hands in my pockets and turning back towards the hotel.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry you have to do this," Sam calls to my back.

"Shut up, Samantha.”


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Cuppatea 13 for commenting on the last chapter, as well as everyone who's read this fic so far!
> 
> Two minor notes: one, I read Twist & Shout yesterday. For those of you that don't know, it's probably the best human!Destiel fic ever written. I mean, ever. Or possibly the best Destiel fic. I'm still crying.
> 
> Two, I just watched the first five episodes of Season 12 today (as I had to wait for it to come out on Netflix). And, oh my god, it's amazing. Sam just can't catch a break, though, can he?

The motel parking lot was quiet. That may have been a given, for just after noon on a Saturday, but from where I was standing, it was the biggest blessing I'd gotten all week.

"Are you going to go now?” Sam asks from where we were crouched behind some bushes. I could tell he was trying to be patient, but it was wearing thin. I was just happy his patience had stuck this long – Dean would’ve tossed me into the parking lot by now, I was sure.

I sigh and shove the bush aside, ducking out of our little hidey-hole and setting a brisk pace across the parking lot towards where my Mustang was parked.

Grabbing the knife I’d used on the motel window, I slide it between the driver’s side window and the door panel, biting my lip as I gingerly moved the blade around and try not to damage anything beyond repair.

After about a minute of this, the lock pops open and I give a quiet cheer of victory as I swing the door open and slide into the driver's seat. The seat slides back and I squirm under the dashboard, biting my tongue as I get to work.

Five minutes, two stripped wires, and a few sparks later, the car's engine roars to life, and I slide out of the car with a whoop. "Hell yeah!"

Sam rounds the car and folds himself into the passenger seat. "Let's get moving."

"Glady." I pull out of the parking lot and down the road, following Sam's directions to Joseph Welch's house – a beat-up, run-down, overgrown shack that had peeling paint and looked like a stiff breeze could knock it over.

"Charming," I mutter, watching the yard as Sam climbs out. "You good?"

He nods, eyeing the house warily. "Yeah. And if Dean calls you..."

"I'll let you know," I promise him. "Later, Sam."

"Bye." He slams the car door shut and I pull away from the curb, driving about two blocks away before stopping again and grabbing the newspaper out of the backseat.

Looking up the information for Amy Hein, I grab my cell phone and dial the number listed.

_"Hello?"_

"Hi, is this Ms. Hein?" I ask.

_"Uh – yeah. That's me. Um, who is this?"_

"This is Deputy U.S. Marshal Fitzgerald, U.S. Marshals Service. I have some questions to ask you about what happened to Troy."

Amy sighs on the other end of the line. _"I've already explained this all to the police, I don't understand why I have to go through it again."_

"I understand that, Ms. Hein. The Marshals are running a separate investigation regarding some past crimes in this area," I explain gently. "I just have a few questions, and then I'll be out of your hair. Would meeting in a neutral place make this easier for you?"

_"Sure, um...there's this little coffee shop in the middle of town, it's called The Lucky Bean. We could meet there?"_

"Okay," I nod, digging out a map. "That sounds good. Does fifteen minutes sound like enough time?"

She agrees, and I end the call and start the car, pointing it in the general direction Amy had mentioned.

It takes about ten minutes for me to find The Lucky Bean – a quaint, quiet little cafe with bistro-style tables both inside and on the sidewalk. I park the car and head inside, reserving a table for two and ordering a latte.

Around five minutes later, a blonde teenage girl walks in and orders for herself before approaching the table. "Marshal Fitzgerald?"

"You must be Amy," I guess, holding out a hand. "Please, have a seat."

She sinks into the chair opposite me, folding her hands around her drink. Her fingers were twitching nervously, and her eyes couldn't stay focused in one place.

"Calm down," I urge her. "You aren't in any trouble, I promise. I just want to ask you about Troy."

"Okay," she takes a deep breath, sipping her coffee. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

"How was your relationship with Troy?" I ask.

"It was happy, I guess," she shrugs. "I mean, we had our fights, but that's normal, right? We lasted almost a year, until..." she trails off, eyes glistening.

I wait until she's regained her composure at least slightly before continuing. "So he was a good boyfriend, then? Loving, loyal?"

"Well, he was a teenage boy," Amy sighs exasperatedly. "You know how they are. But he tried his best. There's a flower shop in town that'll sell it's reject clippings and stuff for really cheap, and sometimes, after he got paid, he'd surprise me with some. It was really sweet."

"Sounds like it," I agree, grinning slightly before sobering again. "So, it was just the two of you, yeah? No one on the side? No suspicions of anyone on the side?"

"No!" she denies, looking shocked that I'd even _suggest_ such a thing. "No, of course not! He was faithful!" She blinks rapidly, eyelids fluttering.

I narrow my eyes at her. "Are you sure, Ms. Hein? No suspicions that he had a little somethin'-somethin' going on on the side? A back-door woman?"

"No," she repeats, looking agitated. "He didn't do anything. I just..."

"You just what?" I coax, sipping my drink.

Amy sags in her chair, worrying her lip between her teeth. "A few months before Troy...um, a few months ago, Troy started acting weird. Coming home late, lying to me – he's a horrible liar, y'know," she adds absently. "Or, he was, anyway."

"Right," I nod. "And did this add up to anything for you?"

"I'm not gonna lie," Amy sighs. "I did think he was cheating on me, after a while. There's only so much you can lie to yourself, you know?" I nod again.

"But it turned out to be nothing, of course," she continues. "I was just jumping to conclusions. I don't think I ever apologized to him before..." she swallows thickly, a tear dripping down her face. "God, I'm such a horrible girlfriend."

I silently hand her a napkin. "I'm sorry, Amy. That's all the questions, though, so unless there's anything else...?"

"No," she sniffs, dabbing at her eyes. "That's it, Marshal."

"Alright," I nod, picking up my cup. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Hein."

I quietly exit the café, and once I hit the sidewalk I reach for my phone, only to find it already ringing. "Hey, Sam. You get anything outta the husband?"

_"Not much,"_ Sam admits. _"He wasn't a very talkative guy. But I did find out that he was unfaithful, and that he moved houses because his kids died in the old house. Didn't want to stay, y'know?"_

"I can imagine," I sigh as I approach my car. "Did you get anything on the gravesite?"

_"Yep. Constance is buried at the old house. We can check it out tonight, I guess. Did you get anything on the girlfriend?"_

"Yeah, actually," I respond, mood brightening. "Turns out, a few months ago, Troy started acting weird."

_"Weird?"_

"That's what she said," I tell him with a shrug even though he can't see me. "Said he started coming home late, acting oddly, lying to her...it's like stuff out of a cheap romance novel, to be honest. She never said he was cheating, word-for-word, but when the writing's on the wall..." I trail off, leaving the sentence hanging.

Sam sighs on the other end of the line. _"Yeah. So Troy definitely fits our pattern, which means we need to go back to the scene ASAP. Can you come pick me up?"_

"I'm in my way," I report, turning the car onto the main road. "And word from your brother?"

_"Nothing. You?"_

"I would've told you if he called, Sam," I remind him with a small sigh. "I'll see you in a few, alright?"

_"See you, Lexi,"_ he replies, and the line goes dead.

I pull up in front of Mr. Welch's house just a few minutes later, waving to the man standing on the front lawn. "Is he as dumpy as he looks?"

"Hey, cut him a little slack," Sam advises. "The man lost his wife and kids in one night, not to mention his house. So I wouldn't blame him for losing the will to live."

"I guess," I sigh pensively. "The girlfriend-"

I'm interrupted by a cell phone ringing, and I look over at Sam as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

"Hello?...Yeah, I'll put you on speaker, hold on." He puts the phone on the seat between us. "Go ahead."

_"Hey, Lexi,"_ Dean's voice says over the line.

"Dean?" I ask, surprised.

_"What, not happy to see me?"_ he teases lightly.

"I – no, I – I just figured you'd still be in custody," I admit. "Didn't think police worked that fast."

_"They don't,"_ Dean reveals. _"They got me on credit card fraud, B &E, grave robbing...you name it. But they made two mistakes: they gave me a paper clip, and they left the station for a 911 call about fifteen minutes ago."_

"So you're saying you broke out," Sam surmises, and I mentally add this to the list of reasons why I avoid the police.

_"Mhm,"_ Dean grunts. _"Listen, I've found some stuff out."_

"Us too. You first?"

_"Dad's not here_ ," he states bluntly.

"What?" Sam questions, confused. "What – how do you know?"

_"I've got his journal, Sam,"_ Dean sighs. _"It was in the motel room."_

"His hunting journal?" Sam asks, and Dean confirms.

I let out a deep sigh, closing my eyes for a brief second. I knew what a hunting journal was – it wasn't uncommon for hunters of all ages to keep one. They were used as sources of documentation in the hunting community, as a way for a hunter to gather and store information on what they saw and killed on a day-to-day basis.

Because of this, the journals usually looked like either babble or Satanism to the untreated eye. This meant that they were kept extremely close to the vest, and for John to just leave his lying around in a motel room?

"Not good," I murmur.

_"You can say that again,"_ Dean agrees. _"Look, can you just come pick me up? We can sort everything out in the motel room."_

"You got it," I agree.

"See you in five," Sam adds, hanging up the phone and tucking it back in his jacket.

* * *

Later, after we've picked up Dean and returned to the motel room (very carefully removing the crime scene tape and police evidence), the three of us laid out all the evidence gathered between us and started piecing everything together. 

I exit the motel bathroom and spot Dean sitting on the couch, with John's notebook open on his lap.

I cross the room and take a seat next to him. "May I?"

Dean whips his head up, blinking at me. "Oh, ah, sure." He slides the journal onto my lap, watching as I flip it open. "How're you holdin' up?"

"I'm alright," I hum, thumbing through the worn pages, browsing through the scribbles on everything from spirits to wendigos. "I'm not the one who's dad is MIA."

"I'm not going to talk about it," he stubbornly insists. "I'm fine."

"I'm not asking you to cry on my shoulder, idiot," I huff with an eye roll. "That's not my job here."

"Damn straight," he grumbles.

" _But_ ," I continue, "I don't think you're fine."

"You don't know me. You aren't me," Dean snaps. "Don't pretend like you know me. Don't go there."

"Alright, Mr. Snappy, I'll leave it alone," I apologize, raising my hands and shifting away. "Just remember that you're the one that called me in."

"Hey," Sam calls from the table. "Everything okay?"

I nearly jump out of my skin, almost having forgotten the younger brother was there. "Uh, yeah. Everything's fine."

"Okay," Sam nods. "Then we need to talk about what we're gonna do next."

"Well, I vote that we go back to the scene," Dean suggests. "See if we can find a body."

"It's dark enough outside," I add. "We could make it back to Centennial without being seen."

"Sounds good to me," Sam shrugs. "I'll get my shoes."

"And I'll get my gun." I snatch my keys off the table. "I'll be in my car."

I make my way out to the parking lot and unlock my car, going around to the passenger side and swinging the door open.

The passenger seat slides back on specially designed aftermarket rails, moving until it meets the back seat. After that's out of the way, I grab my car keys from my pocket, flipping out one of the keys on the ring and sticking it in the tiny little keyhole in the floor under the dash.

Without removing the key, I lift a panel in the floorboard, revealing a three-foot-by-two-foot compartment, filled to the brim with almost every gun, knife, or bullet imaginable. There was everything from assault rifles to miniguns, throwing knives to a few rare ceremonial daggers I'd "collected" from a Victorian-era spirit in Maine. I had silver bullets, salt bullets, and pure iron bullets, all of which had been useful thus far.

"That's quite the collection," a voice remarks behind me, and I grab a gun, whirling around to find Dean standing just behind me.

"Easy, tiger," he smirks. "It's just me."

"Hasn't anyone ever told you not to sneak up on someone with a gun?" I huff.

"I didn't sneak up on you," he points out with a cheeky grin. "You just weren't paying attention." He eyes float back to my weapons compartment. "Y'know, no one would ever suspect your stash to be under the front seat."

"That's the point," I remind him smugly. "It wasn't easy to make, either, but it's worth it, trust me."

He nods, leaning back against the side of my car. "So, you wanna grab your stuff and get in the Impala? It'll be easier to bring one car, in case the cops show up again," Dean defends at my suspicious glare.

I hiss but eventually concede his point. "Fine." I grab a sawed-off double-handled shotgun and a box of salt rounds from the compartment before closing it, locking it, and sliding the seat forward again, leaving no evidence that the compartment was even there.

Slamming the car door shut, I follow Dean to the Impala, climbing into the backseat as Dean goes around to the front.

The drive to the bridge was mainly silent, save for the clicking caused by Sam and I checking and loading our guns.

Once Dean rolls us onto the bridge, I slide out of the backseat, keeping a tight grip on my gun as I scan the bridge.

"Sam, you're with me," Dean orders. "Lexi, you check further down the bridge and the banks."

I nod and set off towards the other bank, keeping my steps as silent as possible.

Once I reach the other side, I make my way to the end of the bridge and down to where the water met the embankment.

Carefully moving so the water was just lapping at my toes, I raise the shotgun and scan up and down the bank, carefully looking for any sign of a dead body.

I conduct a scan under the bridge, keeping one ear out for the two boys up on the bridge.

"Anything?" Dean shouts, leaning over the edge to look down at me.

"Not yet," I holler back. "You?"

"Nope," he replies. "Keep looking!"

I nod and jog back the other way, lifting the shotgun again. About a hundred yards downstream, my feet hit something solid.

I carefully reach down and poke the object with the barrel of the gun, and it flops over to reveal a brand logo – this was a sneaker. A foot.

With a quiet curse, I put the shotgun down and wrap both hands around the foot, pulling with everything I had. With a sickening squelch, the rest of the body is freed from the mud and silt, and I drag it up onto the bank.

The body is gray, cold, stiff, and bloated, but definitely a brunet male and my best guess placed the guy anywhere between sixteen and twenty-five.

A quick frisk of John Doe's pockets reveals a wallet and ID – I'd found Troy Squire.

I was about to call out with news of my discovery, but Dean beats me to the punch.

"Lexi! Eight o'clock high!"

I whirl around to look in the intended direction, widening my eyes as I spot the new figure on the edge of the bridge: a woman with dark hair, pale skin, and a white dress.

A Woman in White.

Swiping my shotgun from the mud, I race up the bank, hitting the bridge and sprinting within a few hundred yards of the girl, raising the gun and squeezing the trigger. But before the round can reach its target, the girl is already gone, diving face-first off the bridge.

I swear again, louder this time, and march up to Dean's side. "What was that?"

"I can't see her body," Sam calls from the edge of the bridge.

"You think that's Constance?" Dean asks as we join Sam on the edge of the bridge.

"Most likely," I confirm. "There's a body over there," I mention, pointing towards where I found Troy. "It's our latest guy."

"Question is, how'd he get down there?" Dean asks, a bit unnecessarily. "And why'd Constance suddenly crash the party?"

"Did I miss anything?" I ask, tilting my head slightly.

Something flickers in Dean's eyes and his eyes dart to Sam, but he shakes his head. "Nah. Nothing. Anything down there?"

"Beyond the dead body?" I shake my head. "Not really."

Dean goes to reply, but he's interrupted by the sound of a car engine revving.

But the only car on the bridge was the Impala...and I was standing within ten feet of the only two people on the bridge.

I turn my head as the car's headlights light up and the engine revs again. "Uh...Dean?"

"Yes?"

"Please...please tell me you left your keys in the car and someone snuck in and is now driving your car?"

Dean shakes his head and holds up his car keys. "Nuh-uh."

"Shit," I mutter, turning on my heel and sprinting the other way as the car lunges forward.

Now, I wasn't stupid. I knew outrunning a car on foot was a bad idea, especially a car driven by a pissed-off spirit chick. But some small part of me hoped I wouldn't die here, now, by _this_ car – not Dean's precious Impala. Not if I had anything to do with it.

Luckily, I did; just not entirely fast enough.

Just as the car came up behind me, I swerve towards the edge of the bridge. The side mirror clips my hip just before I swan-dive off the edge.

I hit the water with a splash, slamming into the river bottom and tumbling like a sock in the dryer for a few hundred yards or so before I get my legs under me and break the surface, gasping and sputtering for air.

"Lexi?" Sam's voice calls distantly. _"_ Lexi!"

"Here!" I answer him. "Is Dean with you?"

"I'm right here," Dean answers, and I turn to see him about ten yards away, lying on the bank on the river and covered from head to toe in mud. "You okay?"

I consider the question before answering. My hip hurt from where the car had hit, but I was fairly sure it was just a bruise; other than that, everything was sore and probably littered with bruises, not to mention the fact that I had mud in places where I didn't want mud and a chill was quickly setting in. But was I okay?

"I'm good," I assure him, getting to my feet. The water was only at about thigh-level, which made it a fair amount easier to trudge through the water, back onto the bank, and up onto the bridge. "Is the car okay?"

"She better be," Dean mutters, passing me and circling the car, muttering under his breath.

"Hey," Sam approaches me, completely dry. "You doing okay?"

"I'm alright," I nod, grimacing as I tug my soaked shirt away from my stomach with an obscene sucking sound and shake out one of my sodden sneakers. "Just remind me to wear boots next time."

"Noted," Sam chuckles. "Hey, uh, you did good. Back there."

"Thanks. You too," I compliment, turning to head back to the car. "Now, I have mud where no one should ever have mud, and I'm beginning to freeze. I want warm clothes, a shower, and at least four hours of sleep tonight – not necessarily in that order."

"Amen," Dean grunts, running a hand through his hair and shaking mud everywhere. He climbs into the driver's seat as I slide into the back and Sam takes shotgun.

Once we get back to the motel, I make a break for the door, sprinting into the first shower and slamming the door on Dean's protests.

I peel off my mud-caked clothes, silently declaring my waterlogged sneakers a lost cause and resolving to pick up another pair wherever I stopped next.

I stay under the lukewarm water until Dean pounds on the door, hollering for me to get out because "the mud is hardening, and unless you wanna haul a statue on the road, get your ass out here!"

I turn off the water and step out, pulling on a few warm, soft layers of clothes. Carefully edging my way around Dean, I trudge into the main room, face-planting onto one of the beds, muttering a 'goodnight' to Sam, who on the other bed, and flicking the lamp off.

We a lot of work to do tomorrow. The least I could do was catch a few hours in between now and then.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read and/or commented on this story so far. 
> 
> The next chapter wraps up the events on 1.01, "Pilot", and then we'll move into the next episode.

The next morning, after a semi-decent night of sleep, I was woken up by a voice hollering, “Up and at ‘em, princess!” and something soft hitting my face.

My instincts kick in almost instantly, and before the rest of my brain can catch up I’ve stolen the weapon – a pillow – and punched my attacker in the gut as hard as I could. I bolt into a sitting position, grabbing my gun from under my pillow and scanning the room for any more attackers.

“Not a morning person,” Dean gasps from a few feet away, bent over double and clutching his stomach. “Got it.”

“If by ‘not a morning person’ you mean ‘someone who would rather not be attacked as they wake up’, then yeah, I’m not a morning person,” I drawl, speech still slightly sleep-muffled. Rubbing a hand across my face, I set the gun on the nightstand. “What time s’it?”

“Just after seven thirty,” Dean replies, and at my glare, defends, “I can’t be dragging your lazy ass around all day, now can I?”

Grumbling, I call Dean some very uncomplimentary names under my breath, but before the situation can escalate any further the motel room door swings open, revealing Sam with two grocery bags in one hand and his phone pressed to his ear.

“…alright, babe. Yeah. Okay. I’ll see you on Monday. Love you too…bye.”

He ends the call and looks up, startling as he catches me looking at him. “Morning. I wasn’t expecting you to be up.”

“Neither was I,” I retort with a significant glance at his brother, who was doing his best to look innocent. “But I guess there’s no going back to sleep now.”

Sam just shrugs and hands me something from one of the bags – a muffin and a cup of the bitter sludge the conveniences store across the street called ‘coffee’. I mutter my thanks and drain half the cup in one go, blinking as the caffeine takes effect.

After the donut, chips, and coffee were gone, I move to sit on the end of the bed.

“So,” I start, “what’s the plan?” Dean looks over at me, and I stare right back. “What?”

“Nothing.” The older Winchester shakes his head. “Just surprised you’re asking.”

“Your dad’s missing,” I remind him. “Your case, not mine. Plan?”

“Right,” Dean nods, although whether it was to answer the question or him accepting my difference, I didn’t know. “So we need to go check out this Constance chick’s house, but doing that during broad daylight would be stupid. Sam, you wanna do your geek-thing and get us some sunset times?”

Sam rolls his eyes and corrects him about the name but opens his laptop anyways, typing for a minute before returning with “Seven thirty tonight.”

Dean nods. “That means we’ve got twelve hours between now and when we can actually get something done. I don’t know about you two, but I’m gonna go have some fun.”

“I’ll come with you,” I offer. “Nobody needs you to get drunk this early in the morning.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and gives me a disbelieving glance. “Really? You sure you can keep up, princess?”

“Don’t call me that. And I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I assure him, tugging on the boots that had been in my bag.

“Can you even hustle?” Dean asks, sounding honestly curious.

I look up from where I slipping a knife into my boot and give him a wicked grin. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

* * *

The rest of the day was spent doing three things – hustling people, doing research, and pulling together a game plan that would end Constance once and for all.

The first part wasn’t that hard – it was mainly Dean doing most of the hustling, although I did contribute to two games of pool just to prove that I could hustle (I’d spent ten years on my own, how else was I supposed to get money?). To be honest, it hadn’t been all that fruitful, but that was more due to the fact that it had been eight o’clock in the morning in a bar.

When I wasn’t helping Dean lighten people’s pockets, I was helping Sam with research. This pursuit was definitely more rewarding than the first, as we discovered two important things while flipping through the battered pages of John’s journal: one, John Winchester had definitely set foot in Jericho before we got here, but we weren’t sure when. Two, looking for Constance’s body wasn’t going to work, as her body had undoubtedly been reduced to ash, courtesy of Winchester Senior.

Which meant that the third item on our “To-Do” list – the plan – underwent some serious renovations. Originally, the plan had been a simple “salt-n-burn”, but without anything to burn, we had to resort to Plan B.

Plan B was based on the fact that there had to be _something_ in that house she was hanging onto – some reason why Constance had decided to hang around. Which means we still needed to scope out the house, but we weren't looking for a grave.

Which was why the Mustang was parked on the side of the road at seven-fifteen at night, half-hidden in some bushes. Sam was in the Impala, about ten minutes ahead of us and scoping out the place.

"You sure he's okay by himself?" Dean asks from the passenger seat, " _Rock and Roll Band"_ by Boston playing softly between us.

"He'll be fine," I reassure him. "It's just a spirit, and Sam isn't exactly a target at the moment – faithful to the bone, remember?"

"I know, he's got a girl at home and all that," Dean waves a hand. "But he's gotta be a little rusty, right? I mean, it's been years since he touched a gun! And now he's taking in a spirit _by himself_ without any backup while we wait here and-"

"Hey." I cut him off. "Quit worrying. He'll be fine. A lifetime of training can't be erased in four years," I point out as my phone starts ringing. I pick it up, grin, and show it to my passenger. "See? Right on time."

I flip the phone open and put it on speaker. "Heya Sam. Anything yet?"

 _"Not a peep,"_ Sam answers, and I give Dean an 'I told you so' look. _"I checked the house – there's a cold spot upstairs, but other than that, it's quiet."_

 _"_ Alright," I nod. "We'll be there in five."

"Don't start the party without us," Dean warns. "And don't go and get yourself killed."

 _"I got it, jerk,"_ Sam replies, and I can almost _see_ the eye-roll. _"I'm just gonna-"_  

Suddenly, he's cut off by a scream that echoes through the car, causing Dean and me to start.

"Sam?" Dean shouts. "Sam!"

 _"Dean, it's her-"_ Sam groans, the line crackling with static. _"Hurry..."_

The line crackles, whines, and cuts off, leaving Dean and I cloaked in a suffocating blanket of silence.

"Drive!" Dean barks less than thirty seconds later.

He didn't have to tell me twice – I spark the ignition and stomp on the gas, causing the car to leap forward out of the brush, skidding around corners that were taken entirely too fast.

The car screeches to a stop in front of the Welch house, and Dean's almost out of the car before it fully stops, and I'm right behind him with shotgun in hand.

"Where's the Impala?" Dean demands, scanning the front yard. "Don't tell me this Constance bitch stole my car _again_!"

I don't answer him, instead fishing my keys from my pocket and tossing them to him. "I'll check the house."

Dean looks like he wants to argue, but I'm already moving before he can say anything.

I step lightly onto the front porch, watching for any boards that might creak or give way. Raising the shotgun, I make my way forward and reach for the door handle. The front door of the house was nearly all rotted out, nearly falling off its hinges when I swing it open. Batting the door aside, I make my way inside and take a look around.

The inside of the house wasn't much better off than the outside: the roof was caving in in several places, the floorboards were rotted through in other places, and the entire house was covered in a musty, sour smell. But even underneath all the years of grime, evidence of a happier life could be found – faded floral curtains, the moth-eaten throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, the pots and pans stacked haphazardly on the dust-covered kitchen counter. It looked like someone had lived here, long ago, but had suddenly dropped everything and fled, never to return.

 _That’s not far from what happened,_ I think to myself, standing in the middle of the living room, loaded shotgun in hand.

Shaking myself, I raise the shotgun and use it as a tool to poke through the objects in the room, searching for the one object that would end Constance’s reign of terror.

Outside, a car engine revs, but I pay it no mind – it was probably just Dean returning, hopefully with Sam by his side.

“Lexi, _watch out!_ ” Dean’s voice shouts as gunshots ring out, and I spin around just in time to see the Impala crash through the living room wall, barreling straight towards me. I try to dive out of the way, but whoever – or _what_ ever – was driving the car moved too fast, and the car slams into my legs, sending me flying. Thankfully, the car hadn’t been moving entirely too fast, so nothing breaks, but that didn’t mean my knees weren’t spiking in pain as I hit the floor, sprawled out like a bear rug. Worse, something invisible was holding me down, making me watch as my shotgun lands a few feet away, just out of reach.

The car door swings open, and Sam climbs out, five puncture wounds in the center of his chest. As my confusion grows, Dean sprints in, clambering through the newly-made hole in the wall.

Before I can warn them of the _something_ in the room – more than likely Constance – something rips Dean’s shotgun out of his hands and throws it across the room, pinning both brothers between the Impala and the dresser.

“Lexi,” Dean grunts, shoving against the dresser, “you okay?”

“I just got _hit by a car_ ,” I snarl. “Do I look okay to you?”

“You could’ve just said no,” he murmurs.

 _“Guys_ ,” Sam hisses, interrupting my reply. “Look.”

I follow his gaze to where a figure was flickering in and out of view – a grotesque, gray-skinned thing in a white dress. This was a Woman in White – a _real_ Woman in White, that is. All pretenses were dropped.

“I can never go home,” the spirit whispers, face flickering between Constance and the monster. “ _I can never go home_.”

She raises a hand towards Dean and Sam, causing them to wince in pain – I had no idea what she was doing, but I needed to put an end to it. Straining against my invisible bonds, I reach out a hand and grasp the bottom of the counter, tugging weakly until a beam comes loose. My new weapon was about a foot long, jagged on both ends, and soft in the middle, almost crumbling under my fingers. Luckily, I didn’t need to do much damage with it.

Wriggling so that I could see Constance clearly, I lift the wood as high as I could, the invisible bonds tugging against me at every step. I throw the beam anyway, sending it through the ghost's "stomach" and causing her to flicker, dissolving the bonds that were holding Sam, Dean, and I in place.

She doesn’t stay gone for long, though – but when she comes back, she doesn’t seem to notice us. She’s looking up the stairs, towards the two silhouettes outlined there.

Her children, I quickly realize. _This_ was why she’d stayed away all these years. This was why she’d terrorized the city for nearly twenty years. _She could never go home._

As I watch, Constance disappears, reappearing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her little ghost children.

“ _You came home to us, Mommy_ ,” they chime in unison. _“You came home to us.”_

They disappear, flickering back into view at the bottom of the stairs as they grab their mother. Constance tips her head back and lets out a scream that echoes around the house, turning into garble as all three ghosts melt into a giant puddle of ectoplasm.

After a moment of stunned silence, the boys spring into action, tipping the dresser over and hurrying to my side. “Lexi? Are you okay?”

“I’ll repeat,” I grumble as I sit up. “I got hit by a _car_.”

“Sorry about that,” Sam apologizes with a sheepish smile. “It was the only way to get her inside.” He offers me a hand, which I accept, letting him hoist me up. “So you’re okay?”

I don’t answer at first, rubbing at my knees, which were undeniably bruised. “Sore,” I decide, “but nothing’s broken, so I’m good.”

“Alright,” Dean nods, turning to face his car. “Sam, if your little stunt damaged my car, I’m gonna kill you.”

I let out a grimace at the matter-of-fact statement, noting the broken window, the scratches, and the knocked-out headlight that the Impala was sporting.

“I know a guy that can fix that,” I offer. “If you’re willing to spare an hour or two.”

“Nah,” Dean waves me off. “I can do it. Besides, we need to hit the road as soon as possible.”

I nod, holding out a hand. “My keys?” Dean deposits them in my hand. “My car is…?”

“Just outside. I had to ditch it when I realized what was going on,” Dean explains, flicking his eyes away from mine. “But it was okay when I left it, I swear.”

“We’ll see,” I threaten. “I swear to god, if my car isn’t exactly how I left it…”

He nods quickly, and I limp out of the house, leading the way outside. My car is indeed just outside the house, the engine still rumbling quietly. Luckily for Dean, the worst damage is the dirt on the tires.

We quickly leave the Welch house, heading back to the motel to pack our bags. Wherever we were going next, we needed to head out now. I had a sinking feeling that by morning, Jericho would be well and tired of us.

After everything was packed up, I slam my trunk shut and face Sam and Dean. “What now?”

“Now…” Dean reaches into the back of the Impala and pulls out John’s journal, flipping it open to the last page and showing the numbers written there – thirty-five and negative 111. “I think my dad wanted us to find this. I think this is where we need to go.”

“Coordinates?” I guess, and Dean nods with a grin. “To where?”

“Colorado. About an eight-hour drive from here – seven, if we push it.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Sam interjects from the other side of the Impala. “But I can’t.”

“Can’t?” I question.

“I’ve got an interview in the morning, remember? I need to be there,” he pleads. “You two can go ride into the sunset, but I won't be joining you.”

Dean sighs and nods, giving his brother a resigned look. “Okay.”

“I – what?” Sam blinks, looking surprised. “You – you’re okay with this?”

Dean shrugs, going around to climb into the car. “If being a big-shot lawyer is what you want, then yeah, I am. We’ll make a stop in Palo Alto along the way.”

Sam stares for a long moment before nodding silently and slipping into the car as I do the same. Before starting my car, however, I reach for my phone, flipping it open and opening up Jess’ contact.

 _On our way back,_ I type out. _We’ll have him home soon._

Flipping the phone shut, I start the car and step on the gas, pulling out behind the Impala as we hit the highway. We had places to be, people to see, and beyond that, so much to figure out.

* * *

Six hours after leaving Jericho, the Impala and the Mustang pull up outside of Sam’s apartment complex, and I watch as Sam gets out and grabs his bags, conversing shortly with his brother before walking over to knock on the Mustang’s window.

I roll down the window and give him a small grin. “Hey, Samantha."

“It’s _Sam_ ,” he sighs, holding out a hand. “I wanted to thank you.”

I shake my head and his hand. “There’s no need. I’m just cashing in on some favors.”

Sam gives me a smirk that says he doesn’t quite believe me. “Right, of course. But thanks anyways. You were a big help.”

“I was doing my job,” I remind him.

He chuckles and shakes his head, glancing over at Dean. “If you’re gonna stick around, will…will you keep an eye on him? For me?”

I follow his eyes and nod. “I’ll do what I can.”

Sam nods and steps back, giving me a nod before he turns and heads back into the apartment. I start the car again and pull away from the curb, leading the Impala away from the apartment – away from Sam.

As I drive further and further away, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with this whole situation; with leaving Sam, with separating Sam and Dean, with only Dean leaving to look for John…

If there was one thing I’d learned over years of hunting, it was to trust my instincts. And my instincts were all screaming ‘wrong’. Sighing, I grabbed my phone and dialed a number that was quickly becoming familiar.

_“Lexi?”_

“Dean,” I sigh. “Are you sure about this?”

 _“About what?”_ he asks. _“Sam? He’ll be fine. You said so yourself.”_

“Dean, just think about this for a moment,” I plead. “Tell me this doesn’t seem off to you.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before, _“Lexi…”_

“Dean…” I reply in the same tone. “You know what they say about instincts.”

 _“I do,”_ he mutters. _“So you’re getting a bad feeling about this too?”_

“Good to know I’m not the only one. So, you wanna double back or what?”

_“He’ll be fine…”_

“Right. Of course. But…maybe we could just swing by, for like five minutes, just to check up on him.”

 _“If you say so,”_ Dean huffs, but I can hear the blatant agreement in his voice. _“This is stalkerish, but okay.”_

I laugh lightly and hang up, tossing the phone down and giving the car just a little more gas as I swing it around and head back the way I came.

I pull to a stop in front of the apartment complex, squinting up at the windows as I counted to see which one Sam would be in. It was quiet. Peaceful. I could imagine Sam and Jess curled together in bed, their biggest worries being the Monday morning that was looming overhead.

 _This is normal_ , I remind myself. _This is the life Sam wants. Not that it’s any of your business, Alexandria._

My thoughts are interrupted by a tapping sound, and I look over to see Dean standing by the passenger side window. I roll the window down and raise an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Lexi, he’s fine,” Dean sighs. “We could be overreacting. Maybe we’re just wrong on this one.”

I blow out a breath between my teeth. “I don’t think-”

I’m interrupted by a harsh wailing noise, and Dean, seeing something I wasn’t, gains an expression of horror.

I spin around to see people stampeding out of the building, the fire alarm blaring into the night. The flames were visible through the windows; specifically, a certain window on the fourth floor.

 _Sam_.

 


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT NOTES: for those of you that are reading this chapter after today - 9/15/2017 - I sincerely apologize for chapter 7 being posted twice. I was re-reading the story today and noticed it. The plotline should make more sense now.

“Come on!” Dean shouts, plowing forward into the developing crowd of panicked people.

I silently follow him into the building – it was burning, and didn’t that say something about dedication? – and up the stairs, weaving through the mass of people. We find our way back to apartment 4C, only to find it locked.

That doesn’t prove to be a problem – Dean simply kicks the door in, barreling into the room. “Sammy!”

 _“_ Jess! Jess, _NO!_ ”

My heart immediately sinks to my feet as I run forward, tracking the voice to the bedroom. I go to open the door, but yank my hand back with a yelp – the door handle was burning up.

Coming up behind me, Dean grabs my arm and yanks me out of the way, kicking the door in again and causing a wave of heat to wash over us - we'd definitely found the source of the fire.

And also Sam - through the flames, I could see him on the bed, screaming Jess' name and starting up at the ceiling in absolute horror.

I look up, and I see something that will never, ever be erased from my mind; it'll make my stomach turn for weeks.

There was Jess: pinned to the ceiling, stomach ripped open and skin quickly blackening due to the flames. She was dead, there was no doubt about it.

"Sammy!" Dean shouts, lunging forward to grab his brother. "Sam, come on, we need to go!"

But Sam was having none of it - it seemed like all he could do was scream for Jess.

Stepping forward, I grab a fistful of Sam's shirt and tugging, throwing all my weight behind pulling Sam out of the bedroom.

Together, Dean and I manage to drag Sam out of the apartment and down the stairs – it wasn't the easiest job, as Sam was nearly a foot taller than me and nearly double my weight. He was heavy, even with Dean helping as he was. Sam was fighting us every step of the way, and the air was hot and acrid with smoke, making it harder and harder to breathe.

We break out of the front door and onto the street, all three of us coughing and gasping for air.

The street in front of the apartment building was pandemonium – people were screaming, crying, pushing and shoving every which way. Someone had called 911, and a fire engine was just across the street, adding flashing lights and sirens to the chaos.

I spot the Impala off to the side and nudge the boys towards it. "Over here."

Dean nods and helps Sam over to the car, nudging him down to sit on the hood. "Sam? Sammy, talk to me."

Sam doesn't say anything, only gaping like a fish out of water.

"Sam?" Dean tries again. "Okay, I'm gonna go get a paramedic, you keep an eye on him."

I nod as he walks away, and I tentatively put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Uh, hey, Sam?"

He shudders under my hand, still not saying anything.

"Hey..." I start, clearing my throat and coughing – I sounded like I'd just swallowed a bag of gravel. "Hey, Sam. It's me...it's Lexi. I'm right here – your brother's just over there..."

I trail off and step out of the way as Dean arrives with a paramedic in tow. The paramedic wraps Sam in a shock blanket and begins looking him over, testing his heartbeat and breathing.

I watch as Sam begins to respond again – first to Dean, then to me. I watch his face as it turns from numb to grief-ridden to, finally, anger. A burning, all-consuming anger.

I was getting the feeling that Sam was the type that would go to the ends of the earth to find whatever killed Jessica. He wouldn't rest until he found what it was and how to kill it, and anyone – including me – caught up in the crossfire would be dragged along with.

Sam gets up and sheds the shock blanket, tossing it aside and stalking around to the trunk. I follow at a slower pace, hanging back as he wrenches open the trunk and the compartment, digging around for a moment.

"Sam?" I step up behind him. "Sam."

"What?" he demands, rounding on me. His face was stoic, his jaw clenched; but, in the flickering reflection of the burning building behind us, I could see the gloss in his eyes. "What do you want me to say? My girlfriend is _dead_ because of some - some _thing_ and you want me to – to say I'm okay?"

"No," I mutter. "Of course not, I-"

He turns around again, cutting me off to slam the compartment shut and drop his duffel bag in the trunk before slamming that too.

I quietly fall back to where Dean is standing, shoving my hands in my pockets as we watch the apartment building blaze.

Next to me, Dean sighs. "He responding any better to you?"

I shake my head. "But then, I didn't expect him to. I don't know him like you do - I have no idea how to handle a six-foot-four-inch ball of rage."

"I'll figure something out," he promises, but I'm not sure who he's trying to convince.

"Why...why don't you see if you can find us a place in town to crash, and I'll drive him down to meet you."

I nod and push off the car, pushing through the crowd until I reach the Mustang, unlocking it and climbing in.

I end up finding a reasonably priced motel about fifteen minutes from the motel, and I quickly text Dean the address and reach for my keys.

But just as I was going to close my phone, I catch sight of another name, lower on my contact list.

Jess.

I stare at the name for a second, which turned into five, and then ten.

The wail of a siren jerks me from my thoughts, and I swipe a hand over my eyes, ignoring the wetness on the back of my hand. There'd be time for that later – right now, I needed to make sure everyone would okay, at least for tonight.

Flipping my phone shut, I toss it on the seat next to me and start the car, gunning it.

By the time I pulled up to the motel, the Impala was already parked and quiet, and just as I turn off the car, my phone buzzes with a text from Dean, simply reading _Room 5. You might want to grab your bags._

Nodding to myself, I flip the phone shut again and climb out of the car and grab my bag from the trunk, making my way around the car and walking until I found the door marked 5.

I raise my hand to knock on the door. "Dean, it's me."

The door swings open a few inches and Dean pokes his head out: upon seeing me, he shoves it open the rest of the way but signals for me to be quiet. "Sam just laid down."

I raise an eyebrow as I step into the room. "I'm surprised he's sleeping."

"Didn't say that," Dean chuckles softly. "He's just...lying there. Hasn't said word one to me."

I nod and look over to the huddled shape on the farthest bed. "I wouldn't expect him to, to be honest. On either count," I tack on at Dean's questioning look. "Sleeping or talking...or eating, for that matter..."

"We'll see about that," he cuts me off. "So, you've got your bag, good, you'll be bunk mates with me again tonight, hope that's okay."

I cut him off before he can enter rambling territory. "Cop a feel and you die," I deadpan, only half-sarcastic. "But other than that, I'm cool with it."

"Alright," Dean concedes. "I'm gonna go shower. You can change in here if you want, he won't move.”

I nod and reach for my duffel bag as he shuffles off, quickly changing out of my soot-stained clothes into a t-shirt and a pair of sweats, slipping a knife under my pillow before I lay down.

Dean steps out of the shower after about five minutes, dressed in comfortable clothes of his own, and looks across the room at Sam, who still hadn’t moved an inch, before sliding into the bed so that we were lying back-to-back.

Hours later, after Dean’s breathing had evened out and even the birds had gone to sleep, the motel room was cast into an eerie silence. As I lay awake, staring into the darkness, the events of the day pressed themselves against the walls of my mind, but I kept them firmly at bay – _later. Later. Later._

It could all wait. Right now, I would take it one step at a time. Tonight, I was okay. Alive.

Tomorrow, it could all come crashing down.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The chapter that wraps up "Pilot". The next one will start on 1.02, "Wendigo". 
> 
> This chapter is mainly focusing on the immediate aftermath of Jess' death, which we didn't see in the show. If you like it, please tell me!

Sam was not okay. That may have been a given, but he was _really_ not okay.

It had been two days since the fire, and so far, he'd refused to eat, sleep, or talk; only moving when Dean forced him to do one of those three things. We had stuck around Palo Alto for one reason and one reason only: Jess' funeral. Sam had put his foot down the morning after she – well, after she died – and demanded we stay, stating that if he let her die, the least he could do was show up and say sorry.

Personally, I thought that was a load of bull – Sam didn't cause Jess' death. If anything, he had the _least_ to do with it. But Sam was insistent, so we stayed.

I was awoken the morning of the funeral by the now-familiar sound of gasps and whimpers coming from the other bed.

Dean is awake almost immediately, lifting his head off his pillow with a muffled grunt. "Time?"

I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as I squint at the numbers. "5:03 A.M."

"Damn it," Dean swears, rolling out of bed and padding across the room to his brother's side. "Sam. Sammy, hey."

I wince in sympathy as Sam chokes out Jess' name, along with a few "no's" and a few "please's".

"Sammy," Dean repeats more urgently. "It's not real. Whatever you're seeing, it isn't real."

Sam's breathing only quickens, and I huff to myself and slide off the bed, marching over to the bedside and nudging Dean. "Move over."

The older Winchester gives me a confused look but shuffles over to make room for me to kneel by Sam's head. I give Sam a calculating look, noting how his eyes darted back and forth beneath his eyelids.

Dean starts to protest my inaction, but I hold up the universal symbol for 'one second'. I curl my other hand into a fist and place it on Sam's chest, rubbing my knuckles into his sternum with a fair amount of pressure.

"Gah!" Sam gasps, jackknifing into a sitting position, his chest heaving and his eyes wide. "Dean?"

"Right here, Sammy," Dean reassures his brother, laying a hand on Sam's arm. "It was just a nightmare. You're in a motel room with me and Lexi. You're okay."

Sam visibly relaxes a bit, but his face still says 'caged animal' to me. "I…yeah, I'm – I'm good. Uh, my chest hurts, though."

Dean side-eyes me, and I flick my gaze to the floor before looking at Sam. "Uh…sorry."

"What'd you do?" Dean asks casually, but the undertone of 'if you hurt my brother, I'll gut you' was readily apparent.

"Just a sternal rub," I explain, unconsciously shuffling back from the bed, placing Dean between Sam and I. "It's a fairly common method of waking people from comas. It doesn't hurt, per say, just…"

"Feels achy," Sam finishes, rubbing one hand over his presumably sore chest and putting the other on Dean's arm. "Dean, it's okay. Thanks, Lexi."

I nod. "No other symptoms - nausea, extreme pain, anything?"

"I'm fine," Sam assures me with a shake of his head, then pauses. "Well, as fine as I can be."

And just like that, the illusion that had been put up since Sam woke up crumbled. Sam wasn't okay, Jess was dead, and her funeral was in a few hours.

It was like finding out the Easter Bunny wasn't real all over again.

I sigh as Sam slumps and take a few steps back to sit on the other bed. "That's something, at least. It'll get better, Sam. Trust me."

Sam looks at me, his equal parts pain, distrust, and speculation but thankfully, before I can muster up the words to respond to that, Dean interrupts.

"Alright, don't start with the chick-flick moments," he groans. "It's too damn early for this." He tosses a bag of chips at my head. "Breakfast."

"Thanks." I tear the bag open and glance up at Sam. "Want some?"

"'M not hungry," he murmurs, turning his head away. "I'll be fine."

"You should probably eat something," Dean pushes. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

He had a point there it was nearly a day-and-a-half drive from here to where the coordinates in John's journal pointed. But even before that, Sam would need his Wheaties to simply muddle through his girlfriend's funeral.

"I'll make you a deal," I bargain, leaning forward. "I'll go find you a salad – and not one from a convenience store, either – _if_ you eat it. All of it."

Sam hesitates for a moment but nods, biting his lip. "Deal."

"Good," I agree, standing and grabbing my boots and coat. "I'll be back in ten."

"Get me a cheeseburger!" Dean hollers from where he had disappeared into the bathroom.

"I'm not your damn servant!" I shout back as I slip out the door.

Thankfully, there was a little Mom n' Pop deli not far from the motel that opened before the sun rose, and I quickly get in, order a house salad with everything on it, and leave again, only wanting to go back to the motel before this salad got soggy.

But just as I was leaving the deli, something catches my eye: a little shop named "Urban Botanica" with floral displays in the windows – not much, as it was November, but flowers nonetheless.

Probably for events like weddings, birthdays, anniversaries…and funerals.

Mind made up, I nod to myself and cross the street, finding the shop to be open but empty, save for the staff. I pull the door open and step inside, the little bell above the door jingling.

The shop seemed to have a self-serve type deal set up – you picked a bouquet size and filled it with the appropriate amount of flowers, and then you paid for it at the counter. I quickly grab a medium bouquet – a dozen flowers – and set to work, scanning the baskets of flowers for anything that looked good.

"Can I help you?" a voice asks behind me, and I spin around to see a young woman in an employee apron grinning at me.

"Ah, no," I deny with a charming grin. "I just needed to pick up some flowers for a friend of mine."

"An anniversary?" the employee – whose nametag read Janet – asks sagely, a knowing smile on her face. "Or is it a birthday?"

"A funeral, actually," I reply solemnly. "I'm picking up flowers for my friend's girlfriend's funeral."

"Oh…" her face crumbles into a look of horror. "I'm sorry for your loss – I didn't know."

"It's not your problem," I murmur, returning to the flower selection. "It's only been a few days."

"Is…is the girl named Jessica, by chance?" Janet asks me. "Jessica Moore?"

I pause and look over my shoulder. "You knew Jess?"

"We went to school together," she offers. "I'm a business major at Stanford. I didn't know she was a friend of yours. I haven't seen you around."

"I'm not from around here," I explain. "I'm a friend of her boyfriend's older brother. We were visiting when Jess…"

Janet nods, her eyes misty. "Well, if you need any help, just ask."

I nod and turn back to the flowers, one particular basket catching my eye. Just about at eye level, there was a bunch labeled " _Hyacinth (Purple)_ ".

 _Purple hyacinths represent sorrow,_ a little voice in the back of my head reminds me. _An apology. A plea for forgiveness._

Quirking a bitter smile, I grab three of them and put them in the bouquet before moving on.

It only takes me about five minutes to collect eight more flowers – everything from dandelions (for faithfulness) to red chrysanthemums (for love) to oleander (for caution, even though it was a bit too late for that). I quickly pay for the flowers and hurry out, making a beeline for the motel.

I bang on the door with one hand, the other one holding the salad and the flowers. "Guys, it's me! Open up!"

The door swings open to reveal Dean, who looked unhappy. "Took you long enough. I was about to start calling."

"Well I'm sorry I didn't inform you I was going to be a _few minutes_ late," I sass with an eye-roll. "I had to pick something up along the way. Now, are you gonna let me in, or…?"

He steps aside and I shuffle inside, dropping the salad in front of Sam and poking him in the shoulder. "Hey. Head up, alright?" I place the flowers on the table. "I, uh, got these for you. Thought you'd want them for…"

He nods, perusing the bouquet, seemingly looking for something, before he nods. "No roses. She says – _said_ roses were overrated," he clarifies for my benefit, flinching at the slip-up before he digs into his salad.

I back off and sit next to Dean, who was cleaning his gun. "Flowers, really?"

I shrug. "That _is_ the proper funeral procedure, Dean. Unless it's changed in ten or so years, that is."

He snorts and shoves a magazine into the gun, pulling the slide back to load a bullet into the chamber. "I wouldn't know. I don't get funerals, to be honest – they don't make sense. I mean, the person's already dead. It's just a bunch of people crying over a gravestone."

"You don't have to get it," I point out. "We just have to stand there and look pretty until we can hit the road again."

Over at the table, Sam snaps his head up. "If you guys don't _want_ to go-"

"I didn't say that," I sigh. "I'm okay with going. Part of me just wants to be on the road again."

"A girl after my own heart," Dean teases with a smile. "And Sam, if you want us to come to this, we will, but we can't really afford to hang around and chit-chat. The clock is a-tickin'."

"You think I don't know that?" Sam asks, sounding irritated. "Dean, the sooner we find Dad, the sooner we can find the thing that killed Jess and Mom."

At that, I shoot to my feet, muttering something about a shower as I snatch my bag and head for the bathroom.

I jump through a quick shower and change from jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt into a blouse, black sweater, and matching jeans.

When I exit the bathroom, Sam is gone and Dean is in the process of buttoning up a dress shirt.

"Looking sharp," I compliment him as I take a seat on one of the beds. "Where's Sam?"

"Taking a walk," Dean mutters absently, finishing with the last button and fixing his collar. "Said he'd be back soon."

"What'd you say to him?" I ask curiously, leaning back against the headboard.

"Nothin'," Dean dismisses casually. "Just family stuff."

I give a frustrated huff at that. Right, I wasn't family. I was an outsider. I'd only been riding with Sam and Dean for, what, a week?

"Is that going to be a problem?" I ask suspiciously. "Me not being family?"

"What?" Dean glances over at me, his hands busy with his tie. "Nah. It shouldn't be, anyways – we can play nice with others. If it bothers you…" he trails off, leaving the 'if it bothers you, then get the hell out' unsaid.

"It doesn't bother me," I assure him, getting up to grab an old book on demon lore from my bag. "I'll be reading. Try not to be too loud."

Dean grumbles something about nerds and settles down anyways.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, Sam was back in the motel room but still quiet, Dean had cleaned half the guns in the Impala, and I had read into the lore, searching for any demons that caused fires, until Latin names swam before my eyes.

About a half-hour before the funeral was due to start, Sam herds Dean and me into our cars (separate cars, as we'd be hitting the road straight from the funeral) and down to Belmont Cemetery, where a crowd was already beginning to gather.

I climb out of my car and walk over to the Impala as Sam and Dean got out. "We should probably get in before the crowds get too much."

"Right," Sam mutters dazedly, eyes fixed on the crowd. "Right…"

Sensing his unease, I glance at the crowd of black. "What is it?"

Sam takes a deep breath and points at two elderly people standing on the edge of the crowd. "Those are her parents," he explains quietly. "They always thought I wasn't good enough for 'their little girl'. They thought I'd put her in danger…"

"Hey," I cut him off sternly. "You _did not_ directly put Jess in danger. And if anyone thinks so, I'll kick their asses. What?" I defend at Sam and Dean's surprised looks. "I'm not afraid to kick ass at a funeral. Fuck social normalcy."

This draws a slightly shaky laugh from Sam, and I give Dean a triumphant look.

"Please don't," Sam pleads. "I don't want to be known as the guy that let his friend beat up his girlfriend's parents at her funeral."

"If you say so," I grumble.

"If they try to keep you out, they'll be raising a scene first," Dean points out. "And if you don't want to do this, Sam, we can just get the hell outta Dodge and no one'll ever know."

"No," Sam decides with a firm shake of his head. "Thanks, both of you, but I need to do this." With that, he marches determinedly forward, with Dean and I following at a more sedate pace.

"Would you have really fought the Moores?" Dean asks quietly.

"If Sam asked? Yes," I insist. "I've got no qualms about punching assholes, elderly or not. I'm an equal opportunity badass," I quip.

Dean laughs but quickly disguises it as a coughing fit as we close in on the mourners.

We spend the next fifteen minutes mingling with Sam's college friends, Jess' college friends, mutual friends of the two, and other people from around town that had known the couple. Apparently, Sam and Jess had been the 'it' couple in their circle of friends – they were young, they were smart, they were going places.

Well, not anymore. Sam might still go places after we find John. The only place Jess was ever going to go was six feet under.

Shaking myself from that morbid train of thought, I join the brothers where we'd gotten seats at the back, away from the middle of the crowd so we could get away as soon as the services were done.

I mainly tune out the funeral director as he goes on and on about Jess being in a better place, her spirit is free at last, ad infintum. Instead, I keep an eye on Sam, not commenting at the tears that were flowing freely down his face.

Once the funeral director was finished, the pallbearers - Jessica's father, what might be a brother, a guy named Brady, and Sam himself - carry the casket down the aisle and lower it into the grave. Everyone was then allowed to throw a handful of dirt into the grave, and when it was my turn, I scoop up a handful of dirt and crouch down on the edge of the grave.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," I whisper to the coffin. "I'm sorry, Jess…I could've called – hell, I _should've_ called. It's not much, but maybe – maybe it would have changed something. Maybe I'd be saying this to your face, maybe Sam would've made his interview, maybe…" I choke on the next words, grimacing as my eyes stung with hot tears. "Maybe you wouldn't be dead," I whisper, voice cracking on the last word as a few tears leaked out.

 _Get it together, Alexandria,_ I chastise myself. Taking a deep breath, I set my jaw, wipe the tears from my cheeks, and straighten my back. "There's no use dwelling on 'maybes', is there? So…I'll, uh – we're gonna head out, Dean, Sam, and I. We're going on a…road trip, I guess. I'll look after him for you…and I promise I'll do a better job this time."

With that said, I open my hand and let the dirt fall through, wiping my hand on my jeans as I stand up and let the next person take their turn.

I quickly make my way out of the cemetery and to my car, ducking in to grab a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment. I'd bet good money that I looked like crap – I hadn't slept well for two days, and I'd just bawled like a baby in front of an audience.

"You okay?" a voice asks, and I whirl around to see Dean standing behind me, hands in his pockets. "Lexi?"

"Yeah," I mumble, then cough and try again. "Yeah, I'm good."

Dean doesn't respond right away, giving me an unreadable look until he says, "Alright. I'd get it if you weren't – Sammy isn't – but okay. You're okay to drive?"

"I'm always okay to drive," I scoff, thankful for the change in subject. "How long 'till Colorado?"

"Just over eighteen hours. Lunch in five sound good to you?"

"Great," I agree with a nod, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the car. "Next stop, Blackwater Ridge."

Dean snickers at that and ambles over to the Impala, climbing in and pulling away from the curb, leading the way down the street.

Just before it fades out of sight, I give the cemetery one last look in the rearview mirror. I knew that dwelling on Jess' death wouldn't bring her back – death was death, and death was about as permanent as you got.

I wouldn't forget her, of course, not ever, but looking back at the 'maybes' and 'what -ifs'?

I had enough trouble sleeping at night without them, thanks.


	9. Chapter Eight

The first thing I realized about Colorado was that it was woodsy.

Very, very woodsy. And also mountainous, a fact that I wasn’t so happy about – give me cityscapes any day, but mountains? No thank you.

The town of Lost Creek (charming name), specifically, looked like something straight out of a travel brochure, with its “fresh air, mountain streams, and wooded charm.”

I step out of my car, push my sunglasses farther up my nose, and smooth out the wrinkles in my t-shirt – I’d changed somewhere around Nevada – as the Impala pulls up next to me.

“You look utterly disgusted right now,” Sam comments as he climbs out of the passenger side. “A little fresh air won't kill you, you know.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those new-age health nuts,” I groan, moving to grab my bag from the trunk. “Leave me and my non-mountainous regions alone.”

“Relax, Lexi,” Dean consoles as he leads the way into the Smoky Pines Motel. “It’s just like camping.”

“I don’t really like camping either,” I grumble rather ineffectually, as the boys were already halfway into the motel office.

Ten minutes later, I drop my bags onto a slightly dingy bed and quickly go the same way, grunting as the bed doesn't exactly bounce as I'd hoped.

“Alright,” Sam starts, setting his bags next to me. “So this is Blackwater Ridge.”

“It is,” Dean agrees, kicking his feet up and onto the table. “Nice and scenic, don’t you think?”

“Shut up,” I huff, rolling onto my stomach and moving so I was facing the two of them. “Did either of you find anything out about this place on the way here?”

They both shake their heads.

“It’s mainly known for its woods,” Sam offers. “It’s a pretty popular camping spot among the locals, though. Not many tourists.”

“Well, of course, it’s in the middle of nowhere,” I point out. "But I have to say, fewer outsiders makes finding out what we’re after a hell of a lot easier.”

“How so?” Sam asks.

“In my experience, small towns are a blessing,” I explain, pushing myself up into a sitting position. “In a place like this, everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows everyone else’s business. That means that Sally will notice if her neighbor Joe suddenly starts acting off, or if Gary suddenly starts buying more raw meat than is necessary.”

“So that narrows down suspects for, say, a possession or something,” Dean realizes. “So, what, we just start knocking on doors and go, ‘Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment to shamelessly gossip about your neighbors?’”

“We don’t have time for that,” Sam sighs impatiently. “We need to find Dad.”

“Hey,” Dean snaps. “Cool it, hothead.”

“No, Sam’s right,” I agree. “Rude about it, but right,” I tack on with a half-hearted glare a Sam. “We don’t have enough time to sit and chat with everyone in town – we’d never get out of here. Plan B is to talk to the one person who talks to everyone else.”

"The Mayor?" Dean guesses.

“The Sheriff,” Sam corrects.

“Tell him what he’s won, Vanna,” I quip with a slight grin.  “The Sheriff. In towns like these, the Sheriff and a few deputies, if that, are responsible for arresting every wrongdoer in the town. If they aren’t arresting you, then they’ve probably asked you about a crime once or twice.”

“To the Sheriff’s Office, then,” Dean declares standing up. “Lexi, you wanna ride with us, or…?”

“It’d make more sense to take one car, yeah,” I agree, grabbing my gun from my bag, checking it for bullets, and slipping it into my waistband, making sure my jacket covered it up.

“Shall we?”

* * *

The Sheriff of Lost Creek was named George Martin. He was a slightly pudgy guy, maybe in his mid-50’s, and if the memorabilia in his office was any indication, he’d held the same job for a long, long time.

 “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asks once we’re all seated in his office. “And lady, of course.”

I decide to dive right in with the first thing that comes to mind. “Sheriff Martin, I’m Agent Ronstadt, FBI, and these are Agents Charles and Clapton,” I introduce, waving a hand at Sam and Dean as I flip open the badge that had been in my pocket. “We’re part of a new Missing Persons Taskforce, based nearby.”

“Part of our assignment is to look into small towns like this – the type the big shots never look into – to make sure everyone’s safe and sound,” Dean continues, catching onto the lie. “Power to the little people, and all that.”

“Has anyone in town suddenly gone missing, Sheriff?” Sam asks, tilting his head slightly. “Any suspicious deaths, anything like that?”

The Sheriff leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth and fixing us with a pensive look. “I’m not really sure why you came, agents. Nothing much ever happens in Lost Creek. We’ve been fairly peaceful for as long as I can remember.”

I share a look with the brothers – John would not have sent us into the middle of nowhere if nothing ever happened in this town.

“Are you sure? I find it pretty hard to believe that _nothing_ ever happens ‘round here,” Dean comments casually. “Sounds like somethin’ outta the movies, if you ask me.”

“Well…” the Sheriff shifts in his seat. “It’s not like we don’t get our fair share of crime, agents, but it’s nothing for the FBI to worry over.”

“We’re not the quintessential FBI,” Sam interjects gently. “Any information could be helpful, Sheriff. Even the smallest rumor."

"Rumors?" Martin raises an eyebrow at us. "Since when is the FBI interested in rumors?"

I just meet his eyebrow with an arched one of my own, giving the sheriff a stony look that needed no words.

"If you insist," he sighs. "The most that's happened recently is Haley Collins. Her brother, Tommy, is an avid camper in these woods, and it's not unusual for him to be gone for a week, two weeks at a time. He left about a week ago, and she keeps insisting he's in trouble. Marches into my office day after day, always causing a big scene – personally, I think she's worrying for nothing."

Dean nods complacently. "Right. Well, it might be worth looking into anyways. Can you give us any more information on this Haley girl?"

"I'm afraid I can't," Martin apologizes. "See, Tommy's in the woods, and that's not my jurisdiction. You might wanna check with one of the Park Rangers up at the Ranger Station."

"We will," Sam promises, standing up. "Thank you for your time, Sheriff. You were a big help."

"Just doing my job, agents," Martin grins as he shakes our hands. "Glad I could help.”

With one final run of the nod-and-smile routine, I lead the way out of his office and then the building, making my way to the Impala.

“FBI Taskforce?” Dean asks, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Really?”

“It’s was the best I could come up with at the time,” I snap, sliding into the back seat and tossing the fake badge down next to me. “I’d like to see you lie off the top of your head like that.”

“Challenge accepted,” Dean vowed from the front seat, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Speaking of lying, what’re we gonna be now?”

“Well, if we’re talking to Park Rangers, we might want to be-”

“Wait a second, guys,” Sam interrupts from the passenger seat. “Why are we doing this again? They're just rumors. We don't have time for rumors."

"It might nor be a rumor," I point out, poking my head between them. "I've worked cases on less than some town rumors."

"This wasn't supposed to be a case," Sam argues.

"Finding John _is_ one big case," I retort, irritation mounting. "Sam, what the hell is-"

"Ladies, ladies," Dean interjects, voice dripping with sarcasm and condescension. "Settle down. You're both pretty."

"Shut up, Dean," I sigh as Sam just glares at his brother.

"You were saying, about the badges..."

"Right," I nod, forcing myself to get back on track. "If we're going to see Park Rangers, then they won't believe that the FBI has anything to do with a few campers in the woods. They will, however, believe another set of Rangers," I predict with a half-grin, then pause. "You... _do_ have Ranger IDs, right?"

"Of course," Dean scoffs. "We've got any badge you can think of. If you've run into it, we can probably imitate it."

I let out a laugh at that, nodding. "Alright. We need to swing by the motel, I need my-" I'm cut off by my pencil pouch of IDs landing in my lap.

"Already one step ahead of you," Dean offers.

"Um." I bite my lip. "…I left this in my car. Did you break into my car?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugs. “You left it in one of your bags – just on top, I didn’t go digging through – and forgot it when you left.”

I consider this for a moment before shrugging. “Okay.” If I was being entirely honest with myself, I was a bit spooked that I’d known Dean for, what a week and a half, and he already knew me well enough to preempt my moves.

Shaking my head, I dig out my Park Ranger ID and toss the FBI one back in the bag just as the Impala pulls up in front of the Ranger Station, with Dean grumbling about what this dirt was doing to his baby.

I roll my eyes but otherwise ignore his mutterings as I climb out of the car, shutting the door behind me and heading for the front entrance.

The Ranger Station was attached to a small museum and the Ranger on duty was busy when we walked in, so Dean, Sam, and I settled in to wait.

I make my way over to the 3D topographical map of the area, frowning as I scanned the model. "Huh."

"What is it?" Sam asks, coming up behind me.

"There's nothing there," I point out, waving a hand over the empty expanse of forest that was Blackwater Ridge. "There's nothing but forest."

"Well, it isn't known for much," Sam shrugs. "Local tourists – like the Collins kid – and a bunch of abandoned mines."

"If your dad sent us on a treasure hunt, I'll murder him," I vow under my breath. "And there's nothing else?"

"Dudes!" Dean interrupts enthusiastically. "Check out the size of this freakin' bear!"

"More than a dozen local grizzlies in the area," Sam offers. "Bear attacks aren't common, but they do happen."

Sam's interrupted by an older voice calling, "You kids aren't planning to go up near Blackwater Ridge, are ya?"

"Ah, no, sir," I lie, whirling around to face the Park Ranger we'd been waiting on. "We're Rangers from a station-"

"Bullshit."

I blink in surprise and shut my mouth with a 'snap'.

"I'm sorry?" Dean asks suspiciously.

"You're friends of that Haley girl, aren't ya?" the man asks suspiciously. “Did she send you down here to pester me?”

I glance at Dean, who looked just as bewildered as I felt, but he gives me a minute nod before turning back to the Ranger.

“Yes, sir,” he admits with his most charming grin. “We’re from outta town, and she thought a new set of eyes would help find her brother.”

“Ha,” the man huffs. “I keep tellin’ her not to worry…see, her brother filled out a wilderness permit until the 24th,” he explains. “He’s not due back for another week. You can tell her I said that.”

"Of course," Dean nods, and I open my mouth to tell the Ranger that we'd be going now and to thank him for his time when Dean continues. “So, that Haley girl, she quite a pistol, eh?”

I bite my cheek and internally groan, wondering why we hadn’t just stopped when we were ahead.

“That is putting it mildly,” the Ranger retorts wearily.

“We’re sorry for bothering you, sir,” I politely interject, “but do you think we can get a copy of Tommy’s permit? Just so she can see the return date with her own two eyes.”

The Ranger raises an eyebrow, but I just give him a smile that had been known to bring grown men to their knees.

Five minutes later, we had a copy of the permit, and fifteen minutes after that, we were pulling into the Collins’ driveway.

I climb out of the car, keeping one eye on Sam as he gets out and slams the passenger door a little harder than was strictly necessary, causing Dean to scowl at his brother. The younger Winchester had been moody ever since we had finished talking to the Park Ranger, and I was determined to draw it out of him, one way or another.

I reach out and put a hand on Dean’s elbow, wordlessly stopping him from approaching the house as I turn to Sam. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” Sam replies, a perfectly innocent mask on – well, innocent to someone who _didn’t_ lie for a living, that is. “It’s nothing.”

“Bull,” I hiss. “You’ve been pissy for the last twenty minutes. What is up with you?”

“It’s none of your business,” Sam snaps.

I narrow my eyes and lean forward across the roof of the Impala, feeling my metaphorical hackles rise. “ _Excuse_ me? Like _hell,_ it ‘isn’t any of my business!’”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean interrupts, stepping between me, Sam, and his car. “Alright, everyone just…calm down.”

I glare at Sam for a moment longer but eventually tear my gaze away and shuffle back a few steps, the tension between Sam and I suddenly suffocating.

Dean, the unexpected peacemaker, was now standing directly in between Sam and I, keeping eye contact with his brother as they had one of those silent sibling conversations that I’d never be privy to.

“Okay,” he says a moment later, turning to me. “You alright?”

I just nod and shove my hands in my pockets shoulders slumping. “Yeah.”

“Sure?”

I give him a half shrug and a look that says “what can _you_ do about it?”

Dean looks at me for a moment before nodding. “Why don’t you go talk to the chick, see what you can find out? Sammy and I need to chat. We’ll be up in a minute.”

I nod again and brush past him, making my way up the drive – along the way, I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, shoving all my non-case-relevant emotions into a box and locking it.

Once I reach the door, I paste a smile on my face and knock three times, waiting until a girl – younger than me, probably around eighteen or so – answers the door. “Yes?”

“Are you Haley Collins?” I ask politely.

“Yeah…” she mutters, trailing off and giving me a suspicious look.

“I’m Ranger Manson, with the Park Service,” I explain. “Those,” I point at Sam and Dean, who are still talking by the car, “are my partners, Rangers Cole and Tyler. Ranger Wilkinson sent us to ask you some questions about your brother.”

The girl – Haley – tilts her head like a cautious dog. “Lemme see some ID.”

I quickly grab the fake ID out of my pocket and flip it open, holding it up for her to see.

After a moment, Haley nods and swings the door open. “Come on in.” She leans over slightly to get a better view of the Impala. “That yours?”

“Ranger Cole’s, actually.”

“Nice ride,” she says approvingly.

“I’ll tell him you said that,” I deadpan, biting down on a grin as I stepped inside the house. “So,” I start as I enter their modest little kitchen, “why do you think your brother’s missing? He’s not supposed to be back until the 24th.”

“Yeah, but he checks in every day,” she explains, setting a bowl down on the table. “He sends emails, photos, stupid little videos. Just normal stuff, but…” she shrugs.

I nod. “Yeah. And there’s no possibility he could be out of range of cell service? Doesn’t seem that unlikely around here.”

“He’s got a SAT phone,” she argues.

“And there’s no way he would’ve just forgotten to check in?” I challenge.

“He wouldn’t do that,” a boy – he looked like another brother of Haley’s – snaps from his seat at the table.

I raise an eyebrow at him, and he eventually backs down.

“That’s Ben,” Haley says, breaking the silence. “Ben, be nice. They’re trying to help us find Tommy.”

“That we are,” Dean agrees as he steps into the kitchen, followed closely by Sam. “Miss Collins, Mr. Collins. What did we miss?”

I give him a quick recap of the situation, Dean nodding thoughtfully every few words.

“He’s my brother,” Haley adds as I finish. “Our parents are gone, and we’re all that’s left. We keep an eye on each other. He wouldn’t forget to check in like that.”

I nod sympathetically and see Dean doing the same, but all Sam does is get a pensive expression and ask, "Can I see what he sent you?"

Haley nods and disappears into the next room, coming back with a laptop, which she quickly opens and pulls up the email.

The first thing shown is only a picture of a light-skinned, dark-haired boy which I was going to assume was Tommy, and the second is the same. The third item, however, is a video, which Haley quickly plays.

_“Hey Haley,”_ Tommy greets, smiling at the camera. _“Day six. We’re still out near Blackwater Ridge. We’re fine, keeping safe, so don’t worry, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”_

Then the video stops.

I nod to myself and straighten up to look at Haley. “And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” she confirms. “We haven’t heard anything else for three days.”

“We’re heading up there first thing,” Dean reassures her. “We’ll find your brother.”

_First thing?!_ I want to scream. _Do I look like a morning person to you? I don’t do anything ‘first thing’!_ But Dean pays me no mind, even though he can undoubtedly feel the holes being burned into his back.

“Maybe I’ll see you there, then,” Haley was saying, sounding indifferent.

“Hey,” I step forward. “That might not be the best idea. Why don’t you just leave this one to the professionals, and-”

“Don’t feed me that line,” Haley snaps. “My brother’s out there somewhere, and I’m not just gonna sit here when I could be _out there_ finding him. We’ve hired a trail guide. We leave in the morning.”

I know I should’ve pushed the issue. I should’ve insisted that they stay behind – Haley and her brother were just civilians, after all. They didn’t have the training Sam, Dean, and I did. Hell, no one had the training we did. And it’s not like we were hunting an ordinary bear – no, there was something dangerous in these woods. Dangerous and completely out of the league of whatever guide they’d hired.

But at the same time, there was something in Haley’s voice that let me know that she’d be coming, whether or not I insisted. Because she was right, her brother _was_ out there, and he could’ve already become a victim of the whatever-the-hell-this-was.

I sigh and step back, a silent apology and recognition of the fact that I couldn’t change the girl’s mind.

Sam looks like he’s about to object, but Dean puts a hand on his arm and nods at Haley. “If you say so. Thank you for your time, Ms. Collins.”

She quietly thanks us and we leave, shuffling out the door and down the driveway.

“Really?!” I exclaim once we were in the car. “First thing?!”

“We need to spend as much time as possible out there,” Dean points out. “Might as well get out before the sun makes everything bake.”

I huff but silently agree with his point, falling against the seat with a _thump._

“Great,” Dean mutters. “Now both of you are being bitchy.”

“As a girl, I hold full rights to bitchiness,” I grumble, unable to fight the faint smile that rises to my lips.

By the time we got back to the motel, however, Sam was still quiet, and he goes straight from the car to the motel room without saying a word to anyone.

Watching him go, I sigh and lean against the side of the car, rubbing a hand over my face.

“You sure you’re okay?” Dean asks, copying my position. “Sam can be a bit of a firecracker sometimes.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve faced worse than him,” I reassure the older Winchester. “You wouldn’t believe what I run into in some of the seedier bars.”

"I bet I would," he challenges but leaves it otherwise alone. "Still."

“I’m not some wilting wallflower,” I remind him with a significant look. “I am fully capable of shooting him if he gets too bad. Just, in the foot of something,” I tack on at Dean’s glare. “Nothing fatal. Scout’s Honor.”

“I’ll bet ten bucks you were never a Girl Scout,” Dean snorts, and I just shrug.

“You never know.”

He just shakes his head and pushes to his feet, walking towards the motel. “Come on, I have a bed that’s calling my name.”

But I don't move right away, instead staring at his back for a moment. "Hey, Dean?"

“Yeah?” he replies, stopping but not turning around.

“We _are_ going to find John, right?” I ask softly.

“Of course we are, princess,” he replies without hesitation. “Between you, me, and Sam, we’re unstoppable.”

I grit my teeth at the childish nickname but nod at the reassurance. “Thanks, I…”

“No chick-flick moments.”

“Of course not,” I scoff, standing and following him inside. “Asshat.”

Dean, to my frustration, only laughs.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, or even read this story so far! Glad you like it.

The morning after we arrived in Lost Creek, I was treated to a rude awakening in the form of someone grabbing my ankles and yanking me out of bed.

My instincts kick into gear and throw me from peacefully asleep to awake and fighting in just a few seconds, but I was kicking out at nothing but air.

My captor eventually deposits me on the grimy motel floor, leaping back and out of arm’s reach. “Easy, easy!”

I look up, glaring daggers at Dean. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!” I demand, scrambling to my feet. “Seriously, Winchester?”

“We need to head out, and now,” he defends. “Would you rather I give you an ice bath next time?”

I don’t answer him, mainly because I was seriously debating grabbing my gun from under my pillow and emptying a clip into the asshole standing in front of me. Luckily for Dean’s health, Sam chooses that exact moment to step into the room, arms laden with a two duffel bags and breakfast.

“Oh,” he stutters about seeing us. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Ha, ha,” I snort, snatching one of the bags out of his hands and pulling out an Egg McMuffin. I toss the bag in Dean’s general direction and dig into to my breakfast, wolfing the sandwich down in a few bites, grabbing some clothes, and stepping into the bathroom.

After a quick, semi-warm shower (for two guys, I was finding that Sam and Dean had the tendency to use up a lot of hot water), I quickly change from a t-shirt and shorts into a long-sleeve shirt and a newer, more durable pair of pants – less exposed skin meant less risk of getting bitten by something, and less risk of getting bitten by something meant less chance of me catching some virus or something.

I step back out of the bathroom and grab my boots, pulling them on and making sure the laces couldn’t get snagged on anything. “I’ll be outside packing my bags if you need me,” I announce to the room in general as I grab my keys and my gun. “I still hate you, Winchester.”

“No, you don’t,” Dean calls after me just before the door shuts.

I roll my eyes at the empty air and unlock my car, grabbing an extra backpack from the trunk before opening the weapons compartment and perusing my options.

First in the bag are two boxes of regular rounds for my pistol, just in case whatever this was turned out to be not supernatural after all; only some sick, twisted psycho.

(That could happen. I held no doubt as to the depravity of humanity.)

After that, I grab some holsters and a handful of knives, ranging from silver to iron, and dump a few in the bag; followed by a container of salt, lighter fluid, and two boxes of strike-anywhere matches.

Last to go into the bag is a few granola bars and water bottles from the emergency stash I kept (because no matter what Dean said, M&M's were not provisions).

“You know, I’d heard that girls take forever to pack, but I don’t think they were talking about this.”

I jump and look up at Dean, who was leaning against my car with a smirk on his face.

“Shut up,” I scoff. “I just wanted to be prepared.”

“Yeah, well, we need to go, so take this,” he holds out an old sawed-off, which I stuff in the backpack, “and give me that.” He smoothly steals the bag from my hands and walks away.

I watch him go, gaping for a moment before I snatch a box of salt rounds, another of iron rounds, and quickly lock up my car before running after him.

I slide into the backseat of the Impala and add the two ammo boxes to the backpack. I grab the shotgun and give it a quick once-over, making sure it was clean and unclogged, as well as making sure my own gun held a full clip.

“Stop being OCD,” Dean sighs from the driver’s seat. “The gun is clean. Trust me.”

“Don’t come crying to me when you get your stupid ass blown up,” I huff, looking past him and out the front window – Haley had spotted the car as it pulled into the clearing, and she did _not_ look happy. “Crap. D’you see…?”

“I see her,” Dean confirms, a slow smile curling his lips as he reaches for the door handle. “C’mon, what can she possibly do to us?”

“Famous last words,” I sigh but follow him out nonetheless – it wasn’t like I could hide in the car forever, after all.

I calmly step out of the car, grab the backpack and the shotgun, and approach the glaring girl. "Hello."

"So you're all the Park Service could muster up?" she asks dryly. "You don't look like much."

"I'm all you've got," I point out, my tone just as dry. "You're stuck with me."

"I hired my own guide," she reveals, pointing at a bald guy holding a rifle a few feet away. "He's going to help Ben and I find our brother, whether you come along or not."

"You're still stuck with me," I inform her, the step away to approach Baldy. "Excuse me."

He looks up from the rifle he'd been inspecting to squint at me. "Whaddya want, kid?"

I frown, taken more than a little aback by the sudden hostility, not to mention being called a kid – I was _twenty-six,_ thank you very much – but I quickly recover and give him a smile. "Sorry, sir, but I figured, as a Park Ranger, I should talk to the trail guide that Ms. Collins hired."

The guide looks me up and down, a dubious look forming in his eyes. "You don't look like much of a Ranger."

I just barely restrain from sighing out loud and throwing my hands up in exasperation. "Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving. I assure you, I know what I'm doing. I'm Lexi."

"Roy," he introduces himself after another moment of speculation. Roy returns to inspecting his rifle and I take this as the obvious dismissal that it was, circling back towards Sam and Dean as our party of six moved into the woods.

"What's his deal?" I ask with a scowl, glaring at Roy. "All I did was introduce myself."

"Maybe someone pissed in his cereal this morning," Dean shrugs. "Who knows. Don't let him get to you."

"I'm not," I assure him. After a beat or two of silence, save for the crunching of leaves, I drop my voice so only Sam and Dean could hear. "So, it may be a bit late to ask this, but what exactly are we looking for?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Sam ventures, voice just as soft, "but I did some research last night after you two fell asleep. I was looking at the video Haley showed us, and get this – in the video, there's this shadow behind Tommy. It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it thing; in three frames, it manages to appear, move, and disappear from the shot."

"Well, it's definitely no bear," I point out obviously. "So it's some kind of creature, then?"

"It could be a spirit. I've seen those suckers _move_ ," Dean argues. "Wait. Do spirits have shadows?"

"Well, I've never really kept one around long enough to ask," I reply sarcastically.

"Shut it, Lexi."

"I don't think it's a spirit, anyway," Sam cuts across our tangent. "It attacks every 23 years, like clockwork. No one survived the attack in '82, but there was one survivor of the '59 attack – a little boy named Donald Shaw."

"And?"

"And I hacked his medical records from after the attack – whatever this was, it left scratches, like it had claws."

"So probably not a spirit then," I surmise, using the barrel of the shotgun to shove aside a bush. "A skinwalker?"

"Maybe," Dean hums. "Whatever this is, it's got a form."

"Corporeal," Sam suggests.

"Oh, excuse me, professor," Dean scoffs. "It's _corporeal._ "

"Hey, how come you're so into this all of a sudden?" I ask Sam suspiciously. "Last night, you were all whiny and gung-ho to find John."

"I was not whiny," he scoffs. "And I still think this is stupid, I'd just rather not run into anything on the way to those coordinates."

"Right." I roll my eyes. "And if Tommy's dead, you won't care _one bit._ "

"Hey!" Dean barks, stepping in between us (again). "Don't start this again.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, shoving ahead to fall into step with Haley, muttering under my breath the entire time. “I swear to God, if Sam doesn’t stop, this place will become a body dump.”

“Uh…” Haley gives me an alarmed look. “Are you okay?”

“What? Yes.” I paste on a grin. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Mhm,” she hums, then glances down. “Is that a standard issue rifle?”

“What?”

“For the Park Rangers…” she trails off, looking at me expectantly.

“Oh, er, right,” I nod. “Uh, no, but I’m allowed to carry my own gun.”

“Right…” Haley trails off again, staring at me inquisitively. I try not to pay her any attention, but her eyes were making my skin itch.

“You’re not a Park Ranger, are you,” she accuses loudly after a few minutes of relative silence. “You're not prepared for this at _all_.”

“What do you mean?” I ask with a sense of false calm. “Of course I-”

“No, you’re not,” she insists, raising her voice. “Tell me what’s going on!”

I come to an immediate stop, almost slipping on the leaves underfoot as I round on her, pinning her with an intense look. “Keep your goddamn voice down,” I hiss, grabbing her arm and tugging her aside. I wave for Roy and Ben, at the front of the pack, to keep on going, and after they’ve passed us I motion for Haley to fall in with Sam and Dean near the back.

One silent conversation filled with head gestures later, the three of us agree to tell her the truth – well, some of it, anyways.

“My name is Lexi,” I introduce myself calmly. “This is Sam and Dean. They’re brothers, and I’m their friend. And you’re right, we aren’t Park Rangers.”

“We’re looking for our Dad,” Dean explains. “We just thought we were in the same boat, y’know?”

“But we do want to help find your brother,” I assure her quickly. “We have a theory that his disappearance may be related to ours.”

“You think that whatever took my brother might’ve taken your dad?” Haley asks curiously.

To be honest, I thought that John Winchester could’ve taken down a skinwalker or black dog with the utmost of ease, but maybe...just _maybe_ …

“Yeah,” I nod.

“So are we good now?” Sam asks, speaking up for the first time.

Haley considers this for a moment before nodding. “We’re good.”

Dean nods, and the grins. “This is about as honest as I’ve been with a woman since...ever.”

I roll my eyes and slug him in the shoulder, causing him to stumble dramatically and come back for retaliation.

“Hey!” Rob barks from a few yards ahead of us. “Quit horsin’ around!”

I bite my tongue and grin as Dean jogs ahead to ask how much longer we’d be walking and Sam falls back to guard our rear.

“Oh, and you were wrong, earlier,” I tell Haley with a grin, unzipping my backpack and digging through it. “I _did_ come prepared.” I hold out a water bottle and a granola bar, which she takes with a silent nod.

Our little posse continues through the underbrush, pausing only once when I managed to get my boot snagged on a tree root. Thankfully, I wasn't hurt – apart from my reputation taking a dent in Roy's eyes, that is.

“This is it,” Roy announces, coming to a stop after an hour or so. “Blackwater Ridge.”

Sam quickly asks what our coordinates were, and Roy tells him – 35, -111.

I meet Dean’s eyes, and then Sam’s, and we share a nod before subtly spreading out for a few feet in every direction, keeping our steps quiet and our ears open.

“What are you doing?” Ben asks, but I quickly shush him, scanning the treeline for any signs of movement. We were looking for anything, any sign of something supernatural – sights, smells, sounds, symbols, anything at all, but there was nothing here.

_Wait a minute._

There was _nothing_ here. Absolutely nothing – not a sound.

I quickly creep back to Dean’s side, where Sam had also regrouped.

“You hear that?” he mutters.

“Hear what?” I ask in a voice just above a whisper.

“Exactly,” Sam confirms.

“Haley, over here!” Ron shouts from our left, shattering the silence. Haley and Ben take off, of course, leaving Sam, Dean, and I no choice but to follow. We sprint through the trees for about a hundred feet before coming upon a clearing – a clearing that looked like a crime scene.

“Oh my god,” Haley trembled, and I didn’t blame her one bit.

The campsite we were looking at was a gruesome scene – the tent had been ripped to shreds, the gear was torn open and spread far and wide, and – most worryingly – everything was stained with blood.

This must’ve been Tommy’s campsite – where he and his friends had been taken by whatever this was. Judging by the amount of blood covering every available surface, I wasn’t liking his chances of survival – I just hoped I hadn’t lied to Haley when I’d promised we’d find her brother.

“Stay here,” I order her and Ben firmly. Without waiting for a reply, I creep closer to the remains of the tent, one hand ready to grab my pistol just in case something decided to leap out at me. I quickly began surveying the campsite, motioning for Sam and Dean to do the same.

I quickly discover good news and bad news. The good news was that there didn’t seem to be anything hanging around, and it hadn’t left any symbols, curses, or hex bags behind. The bad news was that the blood was all human; Tommy and his friends were probably majorly wounded, if not dead, and this creature was not.

“Tommy,” Haley calls. “Tommy? Tommy!”

“Shh,” I hiss. “There might be something still out there. Don’t call it to us, please.”

She falls silent and walks over to Ben, and I quickly slip off my backpack and grab the box of iron rounds, loading them into the shotgun. This was definitely _not_ a spirit, and between salt and iron, iron would hurt a creature way more than salt would.

“Sam!” Dean shouts. “Lexi!”

I jump up, clenching the shotgun even tighter as I ran towards the sound of Dean’s voice.

“I’m alright,” he assures me as I burst through the brush, Sam right on my heels. “Look at this.”

“There are drag marks here,” he explains as I crouch down next to him, “meaning that the bodies were dragged from the camp, but then they just...vanish.”

“We already established that it wasn’t a spirit, though,” I muse, racking my mental Encyclopedia of supernatural critters. “Maybe something that can fly?”

“Well, we know one thing,” Sam announces. “It’s no skinwalker or black dog.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I roll my eyes, ignoring his glare on my back as I follow Dean back to the campsite.

I find Haley sitting on a log at the edge of the carnage, a completely lost look on her face as she clutches the bloody remains of a cell phone – probably Tommy’s.

I set down my shotgun and make my way over to her, crouching down to look her in the eye. “Hey, chin up. He could still be alive.”

“You saw the blood on the campsite,” she argues even as her voice shakes. “Don’t lie to me.”

_I’m not_ , I want to tell her, but before I can, a sound rips through the forest; a sound that has everyone scrambling for their guns.

_“Help!”_ someone was screaming. _“HELP ME!”_


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is relatively long - if you like that in a chapter, yay! If not, I'm sorry, but I couldn't find a good place to split it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's left comments on this story. I really enjoy reading them.

_“Help!”_ someone was screaming. _“HELP ME!”_

I’m on my feet and racing through the woods towards the sound of the scream in a split second, every single sense on high alert. The thing we were hunting could be out there, we could find its cave. Or one of its victims. Maybe even Tommy himself – or maybe Haley was right, that there was too much blood for us to keep up hope.

Before I can elaborate on that particularly depressing train of thought, I skid into a clearing, everyone generally stopping around me. At first, I want to ask why, and then I notice what we were looking at – or, rather, _not_ looking at.

There was nothing here. The clearing was empty, and nothing was moving in the trees. There was no sound except for the six of us breathing.

Everything in my brain screamed _trap_ and every fiber of my being wanted to leave this place now. But I couldn’t do that – couldn’t leave these people unprotected, couldn’t leave Sam and Dean without backup.

Damn.

"It was coming from around here, wasn't it?" Haley pants, pulling me from my thoughts. "I mean, you guys heard that too, right?"

"I think everyone for miles heard that," Dean quips. "I think that's just what it wants."

My hands clench around the old, beaten-up wood of the shotgun. Whatever this was, it knew we were here. It knew we were hunting it – or trying to, at least – and I'd bet a hundred bucks that it was trying to lure us out or away from something, or into its grasp. 

I glance at Dean and Sam and find twin looks or apprehension on their faces, green and hazel eyes darting back and forth.

"Everyone get back to camp," Sam orders, his voice low. "Back to camp, now!"

However annoyed with Sam I might be at the moment, I knew not to argue. I quickly shepherd Ben and Haley towards Sam and Dean, raising the shotgun and falling in step to keep an eye out behind us.

Once we get back to camp, it quickly becomes evident that I was right – this thing's goal for the past fifteen minutes had been to draw us away from our camp and steal our supplies, half of which was now scattered around the campsite, torn to shreds. The other half was probably never going to be seen again.

"My SAT phone and GPS are gone," Ron sighs.

"As is all my ammo," I add, crouching down pick up half of an ammo box that looked like it'd been chewed on by an extremely tough dog. I show Dean the scrap, raising an eyebrow. "You ever seen anything like that?"

"Not that I can think of," he sighs, picking up a scrap of green fabric that might've come from his duffel bag. "I think we just entered a whole new ballgame."

"What do you mean?" Haley asks worriedly. "What the hell is going on?"

“Calm down,” I advise her. “We’re okay…for now.”

“It wanted to draw us out,” Sam explains patiently. “Cut us off so we couldn’t call for help.”

“What, so you’re saying some – some nutjob just stole all our gear?” Roy asks in disbelief. “Come on. You’re crazy.”

“Has anyone ever told you your voice sounds like nails on a goddamned chalkboard?” I ask the guide in an overly-pleasant tone. “It does. Shut up before I find a creative use for this knife,” I threaten, taking the knife from my boot and using it to point at him.

“Stop antagonizing the man with the gun, Lexi,” Sam warns. “He might hurt you,” he adds in a dry tone.

“Shut up, Sam!” I bark, rounding on him.

“I didn’t _do_ anything!”

“Don’t even-”

“I swear to god it’s like watching three-year-olds!” Dean exclaims, interrupting my argument before it can begin. “I need to speak with both of you privately. Now.”

I tilt my head, confused, but shrug and follow Dean and Sam to a spot a few feet from the ruins of the camp. “What?”

“Both of you need to cut the crap, right now,” Dean demands. “I don’t know what’s crawled up your asses and died, but right now, the priority is them.” He jabs a finger at Haley and Ben. “Them and whatever else is out here, anyway.”

Sam shifts awkwardly and clears his throat. “About that – I might have an idea of what we’re looking at here. Lemme see Dad’s journal.”

Dean pulls the journal out from an inside pocket of his jacket and hands it to his little brother, who quickly flips it open to a page about halfway through. “Here it is.”

I peer over his shoulder, anger momentarily forgotten. Curiosity takes its place as I frown at the page. "A wendigo? I thought those existed near Minnesota or Michigan. Farther northeast than here.”

“It’s obvious,” Sam argues. “The speed, the intelligence, the way it can mimic a human voice…” he trails off and turns to his brother. “Tell me this isn’t making sense to you.”

Dean seems to consider this for a moment, eyes darting between Sam and I before he nods slowly. "It does seem like our best bet.”

I huff angrily and cross my arms. “So, what, they’re migrating or something now? Wonderful.”

“Look, Lexi, I don’t know what to tell you,” Dean admits bluntly. “But if this is a Wendigo, we need to get these people to safety and quick.”

“Yeah…” I sigh and roll out my shoulders. “Guess I won't be needing my ammo after all, huh?”

“I guess,” Dean snorts.

“We need to get these people out of here, and quick,” Sam announces, marching back down the slight hill we’d climbed up to get away from the heart of the campsite.

I move to follow him, but I’m stopped by a hand on my arm.

“Wait.”

I let myself be turned around to face Dean, tilting my head slightly. “What is it?”

“What’s going on with you and Sam?” he demands, forcefully but not necessarily harshly.

“I dunno,” I shrug. “He’s just being obsessive with one goal, and that one goal is to find John. I’m just trying to do my job, alright? He’s making it harder than it needs to be.”

Dean looks at me co a long time, an unreadable expression on his face. Just as I was about to turn back to the campsite, he speaks up.

“Whatever it is, you two need to work it out, and quick. Like I said earlier, our priority it that family tree over there. Take your aggression out on Roy if you have two, but the two of you is giving me flashbacks to kindergarten.”

“Aw, poor you.” I roll my eyes. “Now, if you’re done reminiscing, we need to see about getting our gear set up. Whatever we’ve got left, that is.”

Dean nods, and I lead the way back to where Haley, Ben, and Roy were, arriving just in time to hear the latter make some disparaging remark towards Sam.

I decide to follow Dean’s advice. I storm up to the trail guide, getting nice and close to his face.

“Listen to me, you massive dick,” I growl. “You are so far out of your league here, it’s not even funny. You don’t know what’s out there. Now me? I know exactly what’s out there. It’s stronger than you, faster than you, damn sure smarter than you, and it is more dangerous that you will _ever_ be.”

I snarl and then rock back on my heels, assuming a mask of indifference. “So if you want to go out there and get your insides ripped out through every hole in your body, be my guest. I’ve got no problem with that. But if you want to find Tommy, make it out of here, and _not_ be slaughtered, I suggest you _listen to me!”_

Roy takes a step back, whether it be because of the sudden volume of my voice of the spit flying off my lips, I didn’t know.

“Um…guys?” Ben ventures quietly. “What’s going on?”

“The thing that took your brother? It’s called a wendigo,” Dean explains as I take step back and stomp a few feet away, leaning against a tree. “The name comes from a Cree Indian word that means ‘evil that devours.’”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Haley mutters, and that was an understatement. “Do I want to know what it is?”

“It was once human,” I offer. “Not anymore, obviously, but it was once a fisherman, a hunter, a frontiersman, something along those lines.”

“How does someone become one of those things?” Ben asks, face pale. “Just naturally, or…?”

I shake my head and watch as relief washes over the boy’s face.

“They all eat human flesh,” I continue, and that brings the horror right back, bringing a little bit of disgust with it. “So unless you wake up tomorrow and decide to convert to cannibalism, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Good,” he mutters weakly, sitting down and leaning back against a tree. Haley walks over and places a hand on his head, then looks at me. “So, what, we’re just trying to kill some crazy cannibal?”

“Well…” Sam, Dean, and I share a grim look before Dean speaks up. “Not exactly. See, in a lot of folklore – Native American folklore, specifically – when a human consumes flesh, it gives them a bunch of special abilities. Super-speed, invulnerability, damn near immortality…but it sucks out their humanity.”

“So, to answer your question, we’re trying to kill a super powered, crazy, monster-human hybrid cannibal,” I inform Haley.

She goes to respond, but she’s cut off by a voice drawling, “Haley, don’t listen to them. They’re crazy, talkin’ nonsense. They aren’t gonna help you find Tommy.”

“No one asked you,” I fire over my shoulder, glaring daggers at him before turning back to Haley. “It’s your call.”

She stares at me for a long, _long_ time, fear and desperation and disbelief all warring for dominance on her face until she says, "How can we kill it?"

"Well, guns are useless," Sam offers. "Knives won't work either."

"Basically," Dean continues a small grin on his face, "we've gotta torch this sucker."

He holds up a bottle of lighter fluid and a lighter, tossing the former over to me along with a partially chewed box of matches.

"Come on," I sigh. "We've got work to do."

* * *

A few hours later, after night fell, a camp had been re-established, a fire started, and guns loaded. Sam and Dean had consulted John's journal on wendigo protection, and I'd just made every effort to stay as far away from the Asshole Trail Guide as possible.

I walk back across the camp, grinding dirt under my heel as I turn and walk back the other way.

"Lexi, sit down," Sam snaps. "You're making me dizzy just looking at you."

"Well _sor-ry,"_ I huff angrily, stalking over to where Sam was sitting by a particularly large tree stump. He was staring off into space, absently threading a necklace between his fingers.

“Is…that Jess’?” I ask hesitantly, not entirely sure that I wasn’t going to get my head bitten off just for asking.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, not even looking over at me. “I got it for her for Christmas a few months after we met.”

I nod slowly. “She sounded nice.”

“She was the best,” he agrees, a dreamy, boyish smile spreading across his face. “Sometimes I still can’t believe she’s…she’s…” He clamps his jaw shut and curls his hand into a fist. “We need to be out there, finding Dad.”

“We’re trying, Sam,” I sigh. “You can’t focus only on that. There’s a family out there.”

“What about _my_ family?” he protests hotly. “Our dad isn’t here, Lexi. He would’ve left a signal, a sign – something. He’s not here, so what are we still doing here?”

“Um, how about saving people?” I ask him, beginning to get irritated. “There are lives at risk, Sam. We can’t just pack up and walk out because we’re being picky.”

“I’m not being picky,” he argues. “I just think we’re wasting time.”

“Wasting time?” I repeat incredulously. “Sam, we’ve got a wendigo and a possible dead boy. This isn’t wasting time, this is _saving lives._ We can’t just ignore that because you want to go off all half-cocked on some _stupid_ quest-”

“Lexi, I’m trying to find my father!”

“Trust me,” I hiss. “I know.”

“No, you don’t,” he objects. “This isn’t – you aren’t family.”

I squash down the pang that his words and look Sam in the eye. “I might not be, but I’m here anyway, and you need me. So man up, Samantha, and get the hell over yourself already!”

Sam opens his mouth to reply, closes it, opens it again, and shakes his head, rising to his feet and storming over to his brother.

I sigh heavily and run a hand through my hair, a part of me wishing the wendigo would attack already so we could wrap up this case and get the hell out of these goddamn woods.

My thoughts are interrupted by another scream – in the same voice as the one earlier – and I let out an internal groan. _Speak of the devil, and he shall appear._

I calmly get to my feet and grab my gun, flicking the safety off and holding it steady in front of me. “Everyone stay calm. Whatever you do, _do not_ go running off into the woods.”

“She’s right,” Dean announces, he and Sam appearing out of the woods like ghosts. Their footsteps were light, their guns were out, but their voices were steady and sure. “Nobody panic…we’re going to be alright.”

“Easy for you to say,” Haley mutters, but I can hear her voice trembling from across the campsite.

“We’re going to be okay,” I repeat calmly, although my grip on my gun tightens as another scream echoes through the woods, coming from somewhere close. Too close. “Just…stay inside the circle.”

It’s Roy (the absolute idiot that he is) that takes the first shot. And then another. And then-

“I got it! I hit it!” Roy exclaims, lowering his rifle and taking off towards where the wendigo had let out a yelp, not unlike a wounded dog.

“No, you idiot!” I shout after him. “What part of ‘stay inside the magic circle’ don’t you understand?!”

“Come on!” Dean shouts, rushing past me with orders for Haley and Ben to stay put as we plunge into the trees, following the crashing sound of Roy’s footsteps.

“It’s over here!” he shouts gleefully. “It’s in the tree-AACK!”

Silence.

I jump over a fallen log and whirl around – this was just where his voice was coming from. Roy should have been here – unless the wendigo carried him off. I voice these thoughts to Sam and Dean, and the latter shakes his head.

“No drag marks. He’s gotta be here, somewhere…”

I give the small clearing another look and sigh; there was still nothing there. I was about to suggest that we just head back to the campsite; maybe Roy would show up in the morning, completely unharmed.

And then something wet drips onto my shoulder.

_Oh god,_ I internally grimace, closing my eyes. _Please let that be rain, please let it be rain, please let it be rain…_

I crack open an eye and look up, discovering two things: one, that was not rain. Two, oh look, there’s Roy.

I swallow the instinctive scream as my stomach sinks like a bag of rocks. “Oh my god,” I choke out instead. “Dean-?”

“I see it,” he assures me, craning his neck to look directly at the mutilated corpse that had been Roy the Asshole Trail Guide not ten minutes ago. “I wonder why he didn’t get eaten?”

“It doesn’t really matter right now,” Sam sighs, tucking his gun away. “We need to get him down, make sure nothing else can snack on his rotting corpse.”

“You’re such a ray of sunshine, Sammy,” I quip, ignoring his glare as I put my gun away as well, going up to the tree and tentatively testing my weight on one of the lower branches before hoisting myself up.

Fifteen minutes, a lot of cursing, a bunch of awkward shuffling and a bit of a balancing act on my part, we managed to get the body down, dig a hole, and shove what little remained of the corpse in, quickly burying it under a few feet of dirt.

We make our way back to the campsite, guns clenched tightly in our hands – not that shooting a wendigo would do any good, of course. Roy did that, and look how well _that_ ended up.

“Finally!” Haley exclaims as we step back into the campsite. “Where is-” She cuts herself off, eyes widening at our blood-soaked hands and shirts. “Roy?”

I glance at the brothers, then back at Haley. “I’m sorry, Haley.”

She gives me a shell-shocked look, tightening her arm around Ben and giving the woods surrounding us a wary look. “The wendigo…?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “It got him.”

Her eyes flutter shut, and I take a step forward to catch her if she were to fall, but Haley opens her eyes again, squares her jaw, and gives me what had to be one of the most determined looks ever. “What do we do now?”

“Now…” Dean puts his gun away and grabs a half empty beer bottle, the bottle of lighter fluid, and an old rag. “Now we find this son of a bitch, and we end it once and for all. Gather all the supplies you can – we’re moving tonight. Lexi, hand me that roll of duct tape.”

I toss him the roll of tape from the pile of supplies we’d amassed earlier and walk over to look at what he was doing. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking about Molotov cocktails, then yes,” he confirms, dumping the beer out of the bottle and filling it with lighter fluid, then stuffing the rag – also soaked with lighter fluid – in the top and keeping it in place with duct tape. “Should work against our _Predator_ friend.”

“Once we find it, you mean,” I point out, taking a bottle and opening the lighter fluid. “There anything in the journal about where wendigos like to set up shop?”

“Cold, dark places, mainly,” he offers, taping up another bottle and then handing me the tape. “It’d actually be a structure of some kind, it likes to keep it’s food safe.”

“Good point,” I nod, quickly wrapping tape around one bottle and grabbing the next. “Let’s just hurry up and end this sucker. The sooner we end this, the sooner Sam stops bitching at me about finding John.”

“He’s just under a lot of stress,” Dean defends with a sigh. “Don’t be too hard on him.”

“I’m _not_ ,” I huff. “I’m just saying I’ll feel better when we’re out of the woods.”

“You and me both,” he agrees, taping one more Molotov and setting it down with the others, my last one soon joining it. We had enough for Sam, Dean and me to each carry two bottles, giving us only a few shots at killing this thing – without fire, we were defenseless against the wendigo’s teeth and claws.

I carefully put two of the bottles in my backpack and zip it shut, hoisting the bag over my shoulder and grabbing a flashlight. “Haley!” I call. “You and Ben ready?”

“Ready,” Haley calls back, the Collins’ walking over to join us. Most of their gear had been torn up in the earlier wendigo raid, the durable camping material proving no match for the inhuman power of the wendigo’s claws.

Quickly gathering up the rest of our supplies, our little party sets out through the woods, heading in the general direction of where we’d found Roy’s body.

Something catches my eye as we pass the tree where the body had been hung; a set of claw marks scratched deep into the bark of a tree, about half a foot above my head.

“Dean,” I call over my shoulder. “Come look at this.”

The older hunter makes his way over to me, eyes landing on the scratches before I can point them out. “Shit. Sam, over here.”

Sam makes his way over to us and runs a hand over the scratches, digging his fingers into the grooves. “A wendigo was here.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I scoff. “Unless you know of a bear that’s six feet tall.”

Sam rolls his eyes at me and glances around the woods, eyes widening as they land on something behind us. “Look.”

I whirl around and point my flashlight towards where Sam was looking, at another tree. The flashlight beam illuminates another set of claw marks, these streaked through with blood.

“Okay…” I mutter to myself, carefully stepping forward towards the second tree and examining the claw marks. They were at about the same height, and they looked at about the same, save for the blood. Q quick look around reveals a third set of marks on a tree a few feet away, then a fourth set, and soon we had completely deviated from the path we’d intended to take.

“Well, we’re lost,” I grumble, swinging my flashlight beam back and forth over the trees. “Great.”

“If you hadn’t seen those claw marks, we wouldn’t be lost,” Sam points out.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” I snap, whirling to face. “Let me just _ignore_ the obvious claw marks in those trees, even though they’re _dripping blood_.”

Sam opens his mouth to respond but closes it again, a look of realization flooding his face. “Repeat that.”

“Repeat what?” I ask, bewildered. “The part about the dripping blood, or-?”

“The other part.”

“Uh…let me just ignore the obvious claw marks on those trees?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, turning around and pointing his flashlight directly at the claw marks on the tree nearby. “Dean, these claw marks are way too obvious. Wendigos are better hunters than this. Especially…”

“Especially in the middle of the night,” Dean finishes grimly. “In the middle of the woods, too, which just so happens to be where we are, so…I’ll bet you fifty bucks this is a trap.”

Just as the last word falls from his lips, a low growl resonates through the trees surrounding us, shaking the leaves and sending chills up everyone’s spines.

“No bet,” I whisper as I raise my gun. I could hear something moving through the trees, and I sincerely hoped it was just a raccoon or something. A very big, very angry raccoon.

Dean had other ideas, herding Haley and Ben so that they were sandwiched between the three of us, eyes darting wildly left and right.

“Run!” he shouts suddenly, shoving Haley and Ben in front of him. “Go!”

I quickly snap into action, grabbing Ben’s arm and shoving him forward, the action harsh enough to get him to start running away from the beast that was quickly gaining on us.

I easily keep pace with Sam and Dean, all the while keeping one eye on Haley and Ben to make sure they didn’t fall behind. If they fell behind, they would die, no doubt about it.

The "run for your life" plan worked spectacularly until Ben tripped over a root and went flying.

“Ben!” Haley screamed, skidding to a stop and moving to go back for her brother.

“No!” I shout. “Go! I’ve got him!”

She hesitates, looking torn between following her self-preservation instinct and the one that screamed to save her brother.

“I’ve got him,” I repeat urgently. “Go! _Now!_ ”

Haley hesitates some more, looking ready to argue, but Dean cuts off all her choices by simply grabbing her again and running ahead.

Sam and I quickly dart over to where Ben was picking himself up, with no small about of wincing – his left ankle definitely looked swollen, but I couldn’t tell if it was broken or sprained, and we had no time to find out.

“C’mon,” I grunt, hauling him up by his jacket and throwing an arm around his waist, Sam doing the same with his shoulders. “We need to move as quickly as possible. Sam-”

“I’m good,” he assures me. “Let’s move.”

And move we do – it’s a little awkward at first, as I’m about a foot shorter than Sam and Ben falls right between us, but eventually the tree of us work out a relatively quick system of shuffling through the woods.

There was only one problem: we had no idea where we were going, and we’d been separated from Dean and Haley. Rule one of this whole thing had been not to get separated, and we’d gone and done just that.

My thoughts are interrupted by another growl, and my stomach sinks.

_Please let Dean be okay,_ I silently plead as I draw my gun. _Haley too. Please let them have gotten out._

Next to me, Ben whimpers and seems to shrink a bit. “We’re never gonna get out of her alive.”

“Shut up,” I hiss. “Don’t talk like that. We’re going to be-” I’m interrupted by another growl, this one closer than the last.

“We can’t move like this,” Sam decides. “Lexi, take Ben-”

“You take him,” I argue, gently transferring the boy’s weight over. “You can run faster, and you’re stronger than I am,” I point out when he goes to argue. “I can – we don’t have time to argue.”

“Right,” Sam agrees, shifting Ben so that he could comfortably support the teenager with one arm and hold his gun with the other. “Cover us.”

I do just that, running ahead with my gun raised, one finger hovering over the trigger just in case. There were shivers running up and down my spine – I could practically _feel_ the wendigo’s presence, but I didn’t know where it was.

Another growl sounds from just in front of me.

_Ah, there it is._

“Stay back,” I call to Sam. “It’s just-”

I’m cut off by something massive leaping out at me, a massive blur of teeth and claws that hits me before I can ever start to fire a shot.

The next thing I know, there’s a massive amount of pain in my shoulders, and then my head, and then there’s nothing at all.    


	12. Chapter Eleven

I awoke with a scream lodged in my throat and immense, burning pain spread through my upper body.

"Lexi!" A voice shouted – it was close, loud, and persistent. "Lexi, come on, princess. This isn't funny anymore."

I let out a groan and try to lift an arm, a whimper escaping me when my entire shoulder protests the movement.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," the voice – Dean's voice – says, laden with relief. "Don't try and move. You're hurt."

“No shit,” I rasp, peeling my eyes open. “ _Ow_. What happened?”

“Wendigo got you good,” he murmurs, digging around in a bag for a moment before pulling out a suture kit.

I wince and crane my neck to get a good look at my shoulders, which still felt like they were on fire, and immediately regret the decision.

My left shoulder had four deep, long scratches, running from the end of my collar bone to a few inches down my arm, and then running down my front for a few inches. Blood was leaking from them at an alarming rate, staining my t-shirt a dark red.

The memories of what went down were coming back piece by piece – the wendigo killing Roy, then luring us into the forest, Haley and Dean getting separated from Sam and Ben and me…

Sam.

“Dean,” I gasp. “Sam. Where’s Sam? And Ben…”

Dean stops digging around for a needle to look at me. “They weren’t with you. We only found you, passed out and bloody. Right now, I need to fix you up.”

I nod, then stop – my head still hurt where I’d hit it when I fell, and I most likely had a concussion. Add in lightheadedness from the blood loss, and it didn’t paint a pretty picture.

“D’n,” I mumble, my words slurring together. “H’rry.”

“I know,” he mutters. “I’m gonna need to cut your sleeve off to get at these wounds.”

“S’ok. Didn’t like this shirt anyway.”

“Good.” With a quick swipe of a knife, Dean slices through the seams of the shirt and cuts away the remains of the shirt sleeve, then grabbing a needle, thread, and a flask. “This is gonna hurt.”

“’M aware,” I huff. “Just do it already.”

“Here,” he sighs, handing me his belt. “Bite down.”

I bite down on the leather with a nod, and Dean uncorks the flask and begins the procedure.

It was worth mentioning that this wasn’t the first time I’d been sewn up – it had been an almost monthly occurrence, before. Hunting was dangerous – hunting _on your own_ was even more so. This was, however, one of the only times I’d had someone else do it, and let me tell you, it hurts just as much.

I keep from wincing as Dean pours the whiskey over the wounds to clean them and then starts on the sutures, although my teeth were probably leaving dents in my makeshift gag.

“Do you think the…the wendigo has Ben?” Haley asks suddenly, her voice soft.

“I dunno,” I grunt around the gag. “I don’t – _ow, fuck –_ know why it would have left me – _ah_ – and take Ben. He’s smaller…less meat – _ow!_ Dean!”

“He’s probably fine,” Dean interjects. “He could be off in the woods somewhere. If he’s with Sam, he’ll be okay. Sam know what he’s doing.”

Haley agrees, and I lift my head to glare daggers at Dean. Sam and Ben weren't ‘off in the woods somewhere'. The wendigo probably had them. Most likely, even. So why would Dean lie to Haley now, after we'd gotten two cases of proof that the wendigo wanted our heads? Or, rather, our meat?

But I don’t ask further, and Dean just keeps threading the needle in and out of my shoulder.

It takes him about twenty minutes to close the four claw marks on my right shoulder, then another twenty to repeat the process on the left. Eventually, though, he puts the supplies away and takes his belt from my sore jaw.

I slowly ease myself into a sitting position and take a good look at the sewed-up wounds. They were ugly – four long lines of black sutures curving over each shoulder – and would undoubtedly scar.

_Well, it’s not like I don’t have scars already,_ I muse to myself before pulling my legs under me and pushing myself up.

And then almost instantly falling over, because my head was still swimming from blood loss.

“Whoa, watch it,” Dean cautions, a hand resting between my shoulder blades. “I don’t need you passing out on me, princess.”

“Don’t _call_ me that,” I sigh. “And I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worrying,” Dean defends, but I don’t know who he’s trying to convince – him or me. “Here.”

I take the protein bar (that _I’d_ packed, you’re welcome) from him and lean back against a tree while my equilibrium rights itself. “Haley, you wanna go see if we have any ammo left?”

“I…”

“Haley,” I press. “The ammo, please?”

She snaps her jaw shut and nods, scurrying across the campsite to the bags.

I watch her go for a moment before turning back to Dean. "The wendigo has Sam. And probably Ben. Don't lie to me too."

"I wasn't lying," he points out. "Sam and Ben probably haven't been eaten. The wendigo's already gotten his fill, remember? We just need to find the lair and get them back."

"Why didn't it take me?" I wonder aloud. "I mean, it had three meals sitting right there, why only take two?”

"I dunno," he shrugs. "I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth if I were you. It didn’t take you, and that’s it.”

I shrug, biting my lip as my shoulders protested. “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re hurt,” he protests. “How’re you going to handle the kick from one of these,” he holds up a shotgun, “when you can barely handle moving your arms?”

“Shut up,” I roll my eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’m not letting you go out into the woods, where there is _definitely_ a wendigo, with only an untrained civilian for backup.”

“Lexi-”

I ignore him, snatching the shotgun from his hands and shrugging on my jacket, ignoring the tug on the stitches. I accept the box of ammo Haley hands me, dropping it in my pocket before turning to Dean. “You coming or not?”

He sighs and grabs his own shotgun and the medical supplies, slinging the bag over his back and taking the lead. “Come on, let’s head back to ground zero. There might be some clues.”

I make sure Haley stays between the two of us as we make our way through the woods, following the route Dean had taken earlier when carrying me back from where the attack had happened.

Seeing the clearing doesn’t do much, beyond making my shoulders itch when I lay eyes on the patch of dried blood that must’ve been mine – at least, I hoped it was. The worse reaction came when I saw the deep drag marks in the dirt just behind that patch of blood – they were too big to belong to Ben, so that only left Sam.

Sam. My mouth goes dry at the very thought of what might be happening to him – and, to make it worse, we were fighting just before he got dragged off to god-knows-where. Sam and I were supposed to work _together_ – wasn’t that my whole reason for being here? To help them?

And now Sam was…gone. Hurt.

_He might even be dead,_ a sinister little voice in my head whispers as guilt settles in my stomach. _Dean’ll kill you if he died on your watch._

“Lexi!” Dean barks, breaking into my thoughts. “What are you waiting for? Come on!”

I sigh, shake my head, and fall in step next to him, Haley just ahead of us as we follow the drag marks through the woods.

“I knew Gigantor’s monster feet would come in handy someday,” Dean comments lightly a moment later. “Seriously, those things are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“I bet,” I reply dryly, trying to put up a mask of false levity.

It doesn’t exactly work, and I idly wonder if that was because my mask sucked, or if Dean knew me that well already.

“What’s up with you?” he asks curiously. “You’ve been quiet ever since we found the spot of the attack.”

“It’s noth-”

“It’s not nothing, you usually never shut up,” Dean interrupts. “Now, I have better things to do than play Dr. Phil with you, so if you wouldn’t mind, spill.”

I huff at him in mild annoyance, but bite my lip and begin. “It’s my fault Sam got taken.”

“I – what?” Dean sputters. “No, it’s not. Don’t be an idiot.”

“If we hadn’t been fighting-”

“Ben would’ve still tripped, you would’ve still helped him, you would’ve still fallen behind, and they’d still be taken,” Dean says with an eye-roll. “Sam’s a big boy, Lexi. He’ll be fine. You two can hug it out when we find him.”

“Shut up,” I grumble. “But what if we don’t-”

“Don’t talk like that,” Dean admonishes, a sudden edge to his voice. “We’re gonna find him. And you two are gonna have your chick-flick moment, and we’re gonna keep going. Got it?”

“Got it,” I huff, a slight grin twitching at the corners of my lips. My mind was still going over the possibilities – what if the wendigo decided it wanted to eat Sam or Ben instead? What if they were already dead-

I quickly cut off my own thoughts, shoving them out of my mind and marching forward. Sam wasn’t dead. He just wasn’t.

After about fifteen minutes of following the drag paths through the woods, we stumble upon a concrete structure – and by ‘stumble upon’, I mean Dean kicked it on accident and then swore for five minutes straight.

While he was doing that, I took the opportunity to wave my flashlight around, finding the door and the slab of concrete above it, with _DANGER: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS_ engraved on it. Other signs, including _RESTRICTED ACCESS, DO NOT ENTER,_ and _KEEP AWAY_ were also posted around the door.

“I think we found one of the mines Sam was talking about earlier,” I realize, looking at Dean. “Looks dark, damp, and safe enough.”

“Perfect wendigo territory,” he agrees with a nod. He turns to Haley. “Keep on your toes, kid. We don’t know what we’re walking into here.”

“Don’t run off, don’t separate, for _any reason_ ,” I command. “We did that before, and I now have the scars to prove why that’s a bad idea.”

“I won't,” she promises. “But if we see Tommy – or Ben-”

“Call us,” Dean orders, slowly moving forward to nudge open the door. “Come on.”

The door swings open with a loud, loud groan, making Dean and I pause and raise our guns, just in case. Nothing comes, so we continue down the damp, dark stone corridor. We were descending into the earth on a gentle slope, the floor rough stone under our boots.

After about five minutes of silence, with the only sound being water dripping off the stone walls, another sound penetrates the darkness: the sound of metal clanking against metal.

Dean and I both raise our guns, sharing a wary look.

“Be careful,” I warn Haley – both of them, really, but I doubt Dean would listen to me. We creep forward, rounding a bend in the corridor and emerging into a room that held a sight that was both revolting and relieving.

Sam was alive, hanging from shackles that attached to his wrists and the ceiling. He looked bruised, scratched, and covered in dirt from head to toe, but he was alive. And over there, in the back corner, were Tommy and Ben Collins, in similar shape – I hoped they were alive, but they weren’t exactly my priority right now.

I make a beeline towards Sam, Dean right on my heels. A quick visual check of the younger Winchester reveals blood, but not enough to cause any immediate alarm, as well as the suspected bruises. I quickly press two fingers to his neck, relief filling my stomach as I feel the _thump-thump_ of a heartbeat – it was slightly too fast, but that was probably just the adrenaline doing its work.

“Sam,” I call, tapping him on the cheek. “Sam. Hey!”

No response. I glance up at Dean, who was busy unhooking the chains holding his brother up, and raise an eyebrow.

I get a nod in response, causing me to bring my hand back and then across Sam’s face – not hard enough to actually hurt, or even move his head, as we weren’t sure if he had spinal injuries, but enough to jerk Sam’s eyes open and make him gasp.

“Hey,” I repeat soothingly. “It’s just me. Dean’s getting you down.”

“Lexi,” Sam murmurs, voice caught somewhere between a cough, a groan, and a gasp. “You came.”

“Of course we did,” I scoffed. “We weren’t going to _not_ come – I don’t hate you, you know.”

This elicits a small smile from the younger hunter, and I grin in return just as Dean releases the chains, immediately going to hold his brother up as Sam’s legs crumble beneath him.

“Take it easy,” the older Winchester grunts, grasping his brother’s forearms as the latter gets his legs underneath him. I watch this cautiously, staying just out of the way in case I was needed.

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asks cautiously, looking his brother over for any major wounds.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, stretching out his legs. “Dean, the wendigo, it’s somewhere here.”

“We know,” Dean assures him, showing the shotgun he’d carried in. “So we need to get out of here, fast. Can you walk?”

“I’m good,” Sam asserts, and quickly shove my pistol into his hands before going over to check on the Collins kids.

Haley looks up as I approach, her eyes flashing desperately. Ben looked to be in the same condition as Sam – bumped and scratched, but really no worse for the wear. Tommy, however, was another story – the older boy was fading in and out of consciousness, a nasty looking head wound still leaking blood.

“We need to get them to a hospital,” Haley said, voice wobbling. I could tell that she was trying to put up a brave front – and I could tell that it wasn’t working. I nod at her and glance over at the boys – they were both on their feet, meeting my eyes with a nod.

We were all ready to move, and that was a good thing – before we could even take a step, a growl shakes the floors of the mine.

The wendigo had arrived.

 


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the apology scene between Sam and Lexi - I can write hurt/comfort, but apparently not little mushy scenes.
> 
> Also, this is the last pre-written chapter, so the updating schedule is going to change. It's now going to be less "every other day" and more "I'll update when I can."

_We were all ready to move, and that was a good thing – before we could even take a step, a growl shakes the floors of the mine._

_The Wendigo had arrived._

A roar shakes the walls of the cavern, and I clench my hands around my gun.

“Go!” Dean shouts, shoving the rest of us forward. “We need to go!”

“We’ll never outrun that,” I warn him. “We need a Plan B!”

“Alright…” he skids to a stop, then whirls around to face the rest of us. “Sam, you stay here with them. I’ll…draw this thing off.”

“I’ll go with you,” I offer. “No, listen,” I insist when Dean starts to argue. “You go right, I go left, Sam gets them out. The wendigo can’t follow two scent trails, let alone three.”

Dean looks at me for a moment, considering, and then nods just as another growl echoes down the corridor, followed by the sound of slow, heavy footsteps.

“We don’t have time to argue this,” I hiss, shoving Dean one way and running in the opposite direction, gun raised.

“COME AND GET ME, YOU FURRY BASTARD!” I shout, taking off down the hallway. “IT’S DINNER TIME!”

Something between a growl and a roar chases me down the corridor, and I skid around another corner, only to trip over something on the floor and go flying.

I land a few feet away, wincing as the impact with the stone floor jars the wounds on my shoulders. I quickly shake that off and scramble to my feet, glancing over my shoulder to see what I tripped on.

It doesn’t take me long to spot the crag of rock that was the cause of my fall, but my flashlight beam also illuminates something else – a bulky object just behind the rock. I listen for a second to make sure the wendigo wasn’t close by, then quickly shuffle back, nudging the object with a toe just in case it was cursed.

Nothing happens, and I bend down to pick it up, gritting my teeth as pain flares in my shoulders. Flipping the object over in my hands, I realize it’s a flare gun – probably left by some poor camper that soon thereafter became a wendigo’s supper.

But it would work against said wendigo, which meant I had a chance. One chance, but a chance nonetheless.

I quickly stash my pistol for the flare gun, taking off down the corridor again. “CAN’T CATCH ME, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

A growl sounds in response, closer than it had before – a little too close for my liking. I slip the flare gun out and hover my finger over the trigger, slowing down and muffling my footsteps.

The growl sounds again, really close, and the scent of rotting meat and dirt floats into my nose, making me swallow down the bile that rises in my throat.

“Would it kill you to shower?” I whisper into the darkness, swiping a hand over my nose. “Jesus _Christ_.”

The growl sounds again, loud enough to make the walls shake and make my ears ring, and I idly wonder if I’d offended the wendigo before I raise the flare gun and take aim.

The flare lights up the cavern walls, making everything bright orange for a moment, an*d I catch the slightest glimpse of something big, _really_ big, and furry before it all goes dark again.

And another growl sounds, and the wendigo just sounds extremely pissed. Not dead.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, turning tail and running in the other direction. “Dean! Deaaaaan!”

I swing around another corner and almost run headfirst into Dean, who had been running in my direction.

“Lexi, what-”

“I have a wendigo on my tail and no shots left,” I tell him in a rush. “Please tell me you have something?”

Dean holds up a flare gun, identical to the one I’d lost. Maybe they’d been part of a set. “Go find Sam and the Collins kids. Get them out.”

“You-”

“I’ll meet you there,” he continues, interrupted by a growl. “Go!”

I glance over my shoulder one last time before I take off, slipping past Dean and heading for the entrance to the mine. My best guess at finding Sam was to start there and work my way backward.

I end up tracking Sam, Haley, and Ben down to a corridor not far from a mine entrance, rounding a corner to see the four of them making steady progress towards the mouth of the mine – steady, but slow, hindered by Ben, who looked like he was in shock, and Tommy, who was drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Sam!” I jog up to them, panting slightly. “Whoa,” I pause as Sam raises his shotgun, aiming it directly at me. “Easy, cowboy.”

“Lexi,” he sighs, relief leaking from his voice as he lowers the gun. “Wait, where’s Dean?”

“Back there,” I gesture with a hand. “He’s got a flare gun and a pissed-off wendigo, courtesy of Yours Truly. He’s our only hope, Obi-Wan.”

“Is now _really_ the time?” Sam asks rhetorically, shifting his weight from foot to foot and wincing – something must’ve still hurt. “Is Dean okay?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But we need to leave – _now._ ” I step up and grab Ben by the back of the shirt, using one hand to keep him steady while the other pulls my gun. “Come on.”

The four of us make our way towards the entrance, but our progress is slow – we speed up every time we hear anything that sounds remotely like the wendigo, and then we would have to stop again because Tommy had blacked out.

It was a nerve-racking experience – shuffle, run, stop. Shuffle, run, stop. Repeat.

Just as we were nearing the mouth of the mine – we were so close, I could almost taste the fresh air – a growl, much louder than the one before, echoes behind us, quickly followed by a loud curse and pounding footsteps.

“Dean!” Sam shouts. He raises the gun again just as Dean rounds the corner, drenched in sweat with a white-knuckled grip on the flare gun.

“Run,” he orders. “Come on, move!”

I grab Ben and prepare to run again, but Haley stalls my progress by screaming.

“Tommy!” she cried. “He’s not waking up,” she babbled frantically. “He’s not waking up!”

“Calm down,” Sam soothes her, although his voice held a firm edge.

“Alright. Plan B,” I decide, drawing my gun. It wouldn’t kill the wendigo, no, but maybe if I aimed at the head – maybe if I blew enough of his brains out-

My thought process is interrupted by a snarl, and I raise my gun just as I get my first clear view of the wendigo we’d been chasing for days.

It was big – maybe ten, fifteen feet tall – and was covered in matted, muddy, fur; it smelled like rotten meat, blood, mold, decay, and every other unpleasant thing I could think of at the moment.

And it was coming closer with every second. I take a deep breath and raise my gun, aiming sharply upwards and hovering my finger over the trigger.

The wendigo roars. My finger taps the trigger, and-

And a split second before I can fire, a hair’s breath away from the gun going off, a shout sounds from the opposite end of the corridor.

“HEY!”

The wendigo spins around and Dean doesn’t hesitate in firing his flare straight into the wendigo’s chest, catching the thing on fire and bathing the entire corridor in a bright orange glow.

I watch it scream and shrivel and burn, placing a hand on Ben’s chest to make sure he doesn’t get any closer – the heat was licking our faces already, and the last thing we needed was to add burns to the list of injuries.

The flames eventually smother the last of the wendigo’s screams, leaving the cave and all the people in it in expansive silence.

“Damn,” I breathe out, slightly giddily. “Dean, you good?”

“I'm good,” he confirms, tossing the now-useless flare gun away and walking over to me, giving me a once-over. “Are you?”

I nod, then glance over my shoulder at Sam, who was tending to Tommy. “Samantha, you okay back there?”

“It’s Sam,” he calls back, and I was gonna go ahead and assume he was okay if he was well enough to complain. “Guys, we need to move, Tommy needs help.” 

I nod and stash my gun, wincing as the movement sends even more pain through my shoulders – I must have torn my stitches somewhere while chasing or running away from the wendigo.

Dean, of course, notices the look on my face, and his brow furrows. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little…”

“I’m fine,” I dismiss with a huff. “Really. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Alright, alright,” Dean raises his hands and takes a step back. “No need to bite my head off, princess.”

I scoff at him but it doesn’t really hold any heat, and I glance at Ben on more time before trudging ahead into the night.

“Come on, ladies and gents. I don’t want to be in these woods any more than absolutely necessary.”

* * *

It turns out that five people stumbling out of the woods in the dark of night, every single one some form of bruised and scratched and one unconscious, will tend to alarm casual onlookers, like the kind old lady that shrieked and promptly called 911.

The ambulance arrived with a flurry of lights and sirens, and the paramedics descend upon us like a horde of locusts – jumpsuit-wearing, pesky, nosy _locusts._

“I swear, I’m fine,” I promise the young female EMT – Jill? Julie?  – that kept asking about my shoulders.

“But your shirt-”

“I had to help carry Tommy and Ben out,” I point out, pointing at where the older Collins boy had been loaded onto a stretcher and the younger was getting checked over by a pair of paramedics. “I just got a little of their blood on my shirt. I’m _fine_.”

The EMT goes to argue, but I just give her a stony look and back away, walking over to join Sam and Dean by the Impala.

“Hey.” Dean tosses me a water bottle and a bottle of Advil. “Just in case.”

“Thanks,” I sigh, swallowing two of the pills with a swig of water and setting both bottles on the hood of the car. “So what are we going with? Grizzly?”

“Grizzly,” Sam confirms, dabbing an antiseptic wipe against a cut on his arm. “Big one. 700, 800 pounds. Haley’s giving her report right now,” he adds, glancing over to where Haley was talking to an officer, gesturing with her hands. I couldn’t tell what she was saying, but it seemed fairly animated.

“I’ll go check on her,” Dean decides, straightening his jacket. “Make sure the story’s straight.”

“ _Right_ ,” I drawl. “Don’t traumatize the poor girl!” I call after him.

He doesn’t show any signs of having heard me, and I roll my eyes at Sam. “She’s been through enough tonight. The _last_ thing she needs is him trying to come on to her.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Sam chuckles, tugging his sleeve down over his arm. “Hey, thanks for coming to find me, earlier.”

“Well I wasn’t going to _not_ come,” I huff with another eye roll, moving around the car to reach through the back window. I flip open the cooler sitting on the backseat and take out a can of beer, offering it to Sam as I come back around the front of the car. “Dean would never have let me live it down.”

“Plus,” I grunt as I hop up to sit on the hood of the Impala, “I don’t hate you, Sam. I’ve acted like an ass for the past few days, and I’m sorry.”

“No,” he denies. “It’s my fault. Catching what killed Jess…it’s all I can think about right now. God, you probably think I sound...”

"Obsessed?" I shrug. "Sure. But you don't sound crazy, and I trust you. I don't blame you for grieving, Sam. I've lost people too."

Sam nods with a sigh. "For what it's worth, I'm still sorry."

"Me too," I reply quietly. "Now, shut up and drink your beer before I break out in hives. I hate apologies."

"Lemme guess, you're a 'nod, buck up, and move on' kind of girl?" Sam guesses sardonically.

"Right in one," I agree cheerfully as Dean ambles back over and the ambulance pulls away with a wail. "So, how bad did you just mess with Haley?"

"Aw, come on, gimme some credit," he huffs. “I just made sure the police were believing everything she was saying.”

“And…?” Sam asks expectantly.

“And I hit on her but she turned me down, okay?” Dean admits, shoulders slumping.

I can’t help the laughter that makes it past my lips. “Aw, don’t worry, you can traumatize more girls in the next town.”

“I do not _traumatize_ them!” Dean squawks, and behind me, Sam mutters a quiet ‘I told you’. “Girls are lining up at the door to get a taste of this perfection.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I snort, sliding off the hood and letting Dean take my seat. “So, where are we headed next?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna catch a few hours before we hit the road,” Dean announces. “Don’t look at me like that, Sam. We don’t have any coordinates, any messages, anything at all from Dad, and we haven’t slept since the night after we rolled into town, which was…” he checks his watch, “more than twenty-four hours ago.”

“I’m with him,” I offer. The adrenaline from the night’s events was quickly wearing off, leaving me tired and achy and in slight pain. “Seriously, if I don’t get at least four hours of sleep tonight, I’m gonna end up murdering someone. Roll the dice.”

Sam, being the smart one in this whole operation, concedes, and Dean drives us both back to the motel.

I patiently sit still while Dean checks my stitches, declares them ‘okay enough’, and collapses onto a bed, sprawled out and gone within seconds. I trudge through changing my torn-up shirt for a soft, loose t-shirt, shuck off my boots, and then finally, _finally_ , I get to fade off into oblivion.

At least, until it all started again tomorrow morning.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! To all of you who have stuck around this long - thank you so much. I kinda fell into a lull during the hiatus between season 12 and 13, but now that season 13 is set to come back in less than a month, I found my groove again. I'm not sure how regular updates will be, though.
> 
> This chapter is the beginning of 1.03, "Dead in the Water". I'm really looking forward to writing this - it'll have snippets of Lexi backstory! Tell me what you think of it!

The next morning, it was almost ten o’clock before I left the motel room. It was rare to get a slow morning like that, but given that Dean, Sam, and I had no idea where to head next, we figured there was no need to rush. I took the chance to get as much sleep as possible, do my laundry, and was currently trying to clean out my trunk.

I saw Sam approach, but I didn’t look up from the bundle of rosary beads I was trying to make heads or tails of. “Has Dean decided where he wants to eat yet? It shouldn’t take half an hour to choose between crappy fast food restaurants.”

“Yeah, well, he’s picky,” Sam huffs, leaning against the side of the car. He reaches into the trunk and snatches something up. “We could’ve used this last night.”

I look up to see him holding something small and silver, and I hold out a hand. Sam drops the object into my hand and I turn it over, grinning once I realized what it was.

“My lighter,” I murmur softly, then continue louder. “I thought I lost this months ago.”

“Looks fancy.”

“Mhm,” I agree, running my thumb over the two A’s engraved on the front before slipping it in my pocket and slamming the trunk shut. “So. Lunch?”

“Apparently there’s a little place just outside of town that has ‘the best BLT this side of the Rocky’s,’” Sam explains with a slight grin. “Or so says the girl currently caught in Dean’s web.”

I give a small snort and roll my eyes. “Wonderful. We could be heading into a disease trap, for all we know.”

“Quit being so cynical, jeez,” Sam admonishes. “We’ll be fine. I don’t know about you, but Dean and I have been living off junk food all our lives.”

“I’ve been doing the same, just for slightly less,” I confess, glancing towards the door of the motel office, from which Dean still hadn’t emerged.

I hoist myself up to sit on the roof of my car, turning so the sun hit me just so. “I’m giving your brother fifteen more minutes before I march in there and drag him out,” I announce bluntly, pulling out my phone and beginning to sort through my emails.

Sixteen minutes later, there was still no sign of the elder Winchester, and I was getting hungry. I huff angrily and slip my phone shut, vaulting off the car and landing neatly on the ground. “I’ll be right back.”

“’Kay,” Sam mumbles noncommittally from where he was studying a map.

I make my way up to the office, swinging the door open and poking my head it, scanning the meager crowds for – ah. There he was. Of course.

“Hey, Romeo!” I shout, instantly attracting the attention of everyone in the room – including Dean and that of the dark-haired desk clerk he’d been schmoozing up to. “Come _on_ , we were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago! Or do you not want lunch?”

“I’m coming!” Dean defends, sounding irritated. “Just give me five.”

“I’ll leave without you,” I threaten. “Don’t think I won't.”

“Alright, calm down,” he sighs, brushing past me and into the parking lot. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Still hurts a bit, but I’ll be fine,” I hum nonchalantly. “I’ve had worse.”

Dean shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pocket, leading the way to the parking lot. “According to Melissa, the gorgeous brunette in there with the big-”

“Skip the description, please, she isn't quite my type,” I comment dryly, side-eyeing Dean.

“Anyways,” he continues, rolling his eyes, “she recommends a place a little up the interstate called Charlotte’s Café. All-American bar food – hot, greasy, and with more bacon than a pig farm.”

“Sounds like a heart attack waiting to happen,” I snort. “But we could all use a break…Sam especially.”

Dean nods, but he doesn’t comment further until we reach our cars and he slides in next to Sam, starting the engine.

“Last one there pays!”

Before I can protest, the Impala revs up and peels away from the curb, the sound of squealing tires nearly drowning out the sound of Dean’s laughter.

It only takes a moment for me to realize what just happened, and then I’m skidding back to my car, calling Dean every name under the sun.

I dive into my car and stomp on the gas, gravel flying as I lurch out of the parking lot, speeding in the direction in which the Impala had disappeared.

I would be damned if I’d let Dean win, and like _hell_ I’d be paying for lunch.

* * *

Charlotte’s Café wasn’t actually as bad as I thought it would be – it was clean and well-kept, and the tables weren't sticky or wet or stained with god-knows-what, which was a plus. As for the food, it was mostly greasy diner fare – they had something that was apparently two burger patties, sausage, bacon, and onion rings slathered in barbecue sauce between two buns – but they also served salads and a lighter chicken sandwich. Sam ordered the former, and I chose the latter. Dean, per usual, got a bacon cheeseburger.

We waited until we were all served to open up the newspapers and decide where we were headed to next.

“I hate this part,” I grumble after reading about the fifth drug overdose in Ohio within a week. “Can’t they just make a section called ‘weird deaths’? People like weird stuff, I guarantee it’d be a hit.”

“Aw, that’d be too easy,” Dean teases, taking a swig of his beer. “When have our jobs ever been easy?”

“Point,” I acknowledge with a smirk, scanning an obit that reported a mauling, only to find that the victim had been camping in an area with reported bear attacks at the time of his death.

“Are you sure Dad hasn’t sent us anything?” Sam asks around a mouthful of lettuce. “No coordinates, no leads, nothing?”

“Nada,” his brother mumbles around a mouthful of burger. “I checked his journal cover to cover, Sam. There’s nothing there. We’ve gotta do this old school.”

“Which means scanning through the poor guys and gals that have died recently and deciding whose family to further traumatize,” I add. “Another reason why I hate this part.”

Dean just shrugs as I take another bite of my sandwich and turn another page, scanning the obituaries for words like ‘mysterious death’, ‘mauling’, or ‘multiple disappearances'.

“Here’s one,” I announce, pointing at an entry near the bottom of the page. “Sophie Carlton, from Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Drowned last week.”

“And?” Dean asks, reading over my shoulder. “She lives in a place called _Lake Manitoc_ , drowning seems kinda typical.”

“Right, except it says here she was a champion swimmer. Doesn’t strike me as the type to drown, and in a lake, no less.”

“May I?” Sam asks, and I slide the paper over and let him read while I finish my sandwich.

“No body was ever recovered,” the younger Winchester announces after a moment. “Authorities swept the lake and found nothing.”

“They must’ve missed something,” Dean protests. “Bodies don’t just _disappear._ ”

“Unless they’ve been possessed,” I point out, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Or eaten. Maybe there’s something in that lake that-”

I’m quickly silenced by Dean slapping a hand over my mouth as a perky blonde waitress whose nametag says Sheila approaches.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks, smiling at the boys. “Dessert, maybe?”

Dean opens his mouth to reply, probably in the form of an innuendo accompanied by a leer, but Sam beats him to it.

“Just the check, please,” he requests politely before returning to the newspaper.

Sheila looks a little crestfallen but quickly recovers with a nod and a cheery smile, sashaying back to the kitchen with much more hip-swaying than was necessary, causing Dean to glue his eyes to her ass until she disappeared from view.

“Y’know, we’re allowed to have fun, Sam,” Dean complains as soon as she’s gone. “And _that_ , man, is _fun_.”

“You’re a pig,” I groan, reaching over to whack him on the shoulder. Dean proceeds to raise his eyebrows and give me a ‘what are you gonna do about it?’ look.

“We need to hit the road, not hook up with the locals,” Sam protests as Sheila comes back. Dean quickly pays with Aaron Laurens’ credit card, and I slide off my barstool and shrug on my jacket.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, we’re going now. It’s, what, a sixteen-hour drive?” Dean asks, glancing at me.

I just shrug and grab my keys from my pocket, twirling them on a finger as I lead the way out of the café.

“Next stop: Lake Manitoc.”


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin, was a small, woodsy town, about ten miles west of Lake Michigan. Its centerpiece was a lake, as the name implied, and it only held around a thousand people. That wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t a big city – or even a city, really – on any level.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Dean had commented as we drove in. “You could probably pass right by without realizing.”

“It’s hiding something,” I’d argued. “It _has_ to be. Bodies don’t just disappear, Dean.”

I shake my head sigh to myself as I pull up in front of the address listed as the victim’s – 402 Dockside Drive. I put the car into park, slipping on my sunglasses and sliding out of the car as the Impala rumbles to a stop next to me.

“This is the house?” Dean asks, taking a look at our surroundings. “Looks…idyllic.”

“Yeah, well, something obviously went wrong here,” I mutter, digging through my bag of IDs. “CIA, FBI, CDC…NSA…Fish & Wildlife?”

“That sounds good,” Dean agrees, grabbing his own badge and handing over Sam’s.

I lead the way to the door, the old porch creaking beneath my feet as I knock on the door. “Mr. Carlton, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service.”

After a moment, the door swings open to reveal a young man with dark hair.

“You Will Carlton?” Dean asks, stepping up to my side. After the man – kid, really – nods, he continues, “We’re Officers Cromwell, McGregor, and…” I flip open my badge, and he quickly glances at it. “Kelly, and we wanted to ask you a few questions about your sister’s death.”

“Um, okay…the police were already here,” he explains hesitantly. “They already conducted their report.”

“We know,” Sam quickly reassures him. “We just wanted to check the lake to make sure there was nothing that contributed to her death.”

“It should only take a moment,” I add gently, giving the guy – Will – a charming smile.

“Alright,” he concedes after a moment, stepping back to let us in the house.

I slip inside, glancing at my surroundings – as if there would be a neon sign pointing out the supernatural element – before looking back at Will, who seemed incredibly nervous. Not that I blamed the kid, of course; his sister had just _died_.

Sam convinces him to show us the lake where Sophie had died, and while he hesitates, her brother ends up agreeing after a fair amount of urging. Stepping out of the house, I take a look around, noting that the waters of the lake were mostly placid, only ruffled by the slight breeze in the air.

 “It doesn’t look like the scene of a recent death to me,” I comment quietly to Dean. “You’d think there’d be more…”

The other hunter nods, listening with half an ear as Sam questions Will about Sophie’s death – had he seen it happen? Had _anyone_? Had something dragged her under? Had there been any blood or screaming?

“No!” he protests violently to the last question. “No, she didn’t – I didn’t see anything, but there isn't anything dangerous in that lake! Nothing killed her, it was an accident.”

_Not so sure about that,_ I mentally rebuke. Out loud, I just clear my throat. “That’s all we’re trying to find out, Mr. Carlton. Can you run through it, one more time? Just to be sure – we don’t want anything slipping through the cracks.”

“Sure,” he sighs, slumping his shoulders. “She was about a hundred yards out, maybe, swimming – alone, like she always is…was – and suddenly, Dad couldn’t hear her anymore, so he went out to check and she was just…gone.” Will swallows thickly. “Just…no trace, no body, nothing.”

I nod, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Thank you for your time, Mr. Carlton, and we’ll be in touch.”

Just as I began to turn back towards the house, Dean stops, looking out over the lake. “What about your father, can we speak to him?”

I spin on my heel, follow Dean’s gaze to the huddled shape sitting on the dock.

Will Carlton takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. He’s been through a lot, lately, and I…I think he needs to be alone.”

“Completely understandable,” Sam agrees, nodding. “Thank you for your time.”

Will nods, and Sam, Dean, and I quickly say our goodbyes and beat a hasty retreat.

“So,” I begin, leaning on the roof of my car. “No one saw anything. Sophie drowned, but no one knows how. My money’s on something dragging her under. Water wraith, maybe?”

“Who knows?” Dean shrugs as he slides into the driver’s seat of the Impala. “Let’s go see what the Sheriff has to say about it.”

The sheriff’s office was only a quick hop, skip, and jump away from the Carlton house, and the Sheriff himself – Jake Devins – seemed happy to see us, if a little confused.

“I’m not sure what I can do for you,” he admits as we settle into the chairs opposite his desk. “We already swept the lake – there was no body recovered. No _traces_ of a body, either. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but you probably won't find anything.”

“We’re not really looking for a body,” I confess, tilting my head as I formulate what to say next. “We’re more looking for what killed her – making sure there’s nothing in that lake that shouldn’t be.”

Devins gives me a long, disbelieving look, but eventually shrugs and lets it go. "Well, whatever killed Sophie Carlton won't be a problem for very much longer, what with the dam and all.”

Dean, Sam, and I share a look. “The…dam?”

“Yeah, the dam,” the sheriff repeats, as if it were obvious. “The local dam’s been falling apart lately, and the government won't give us the grant to fix it, then it’s coming down and the lake’ll be gone within two months, at the most. But, of course, with you being Fish & Wildlife and all, you’d already know that.”

I nod as a piece fell into place. “Right. Of course. We just needed to make sure.”

“So, Sheriff,” Dean interrupts, diverting the conversation before I dig my hole any deeper, “would you mind giving us directions to-”

He’s cut off by a knock at the door, and I twist in my chair to see a woman standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?” she asks bashfully. “I can come back later.”

“Oh, no, we were just finishing up,” Dean assures her, cranking his smile up to ten. The sheriff notices this, of course, and gives Dean a dry look as he stands up and rounds his desk. “Andrea, these are agents from Fish & Wildlife. Agents, this is my daughter, Andrea.”

“Andrea Barr,” she introduces herself, holding out a hand for each of us to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

Dean grins, but before he can respond, there's a shuffling sound from behind Andrea's legs, a little blond head peers out at us.

Something inside me immediately perks up at the sight of the kid, and I slide off my chair and onto one knee. “Hey, kid.” I glance up at Andrea, a silent question on my face.

“Yes, he’s mine,” she replies, running a gentle hand through her son’s hair. “Lucas, this is Agent…”

“Please, call me Leia,” I request with a smile before returning my attention to the kid. “Hi, Lucas. Nice to meet you.”

Lucas doesn’t respond as I’d expect a kid of maybe ten or so to react; he just ducks back behind his mother’s legs without saying a word.

I respectfully backup, shuffling back a foot or two. “Hey, no problem.”

“He…doesn’t talk much,” Andrea says by way of explanation, although I got the feeling that there was more to the story, but I drop it with a nod.

Dean clears his throat, effectively inserting himself back into the conversation. “Ms. Barr-”

“Andrea.”

“If you insist,” Dean practically purrs. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you recommend a reasonably-priced motel in town? We don’t get very far on a government salary, and I’d rather not sleep in my car.”

Andrea grins, nods, and cants her head, considering the question for a few moments before offering, “Lakefront Motel, it’s about two blocks that way. You can’t miss it.”

“Two blocks…you know what, can you just show me?” Dean asks, giving Andrea another Casanova smile.

I subtly roll my eyes and grumble under my breath, stepping back to Sam’s side. “The lengths he’ll go to…it’s almost awe-inspiring.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam whispers, fighting a grin.

Dean eventually sweet-talks Andrea into showing us to the motel, and the mother leaves her son with Sheriff Devins before leading the way out of the building.

It only took us about five minutes to get to the Lakefront Motel, but Dean seemed determined to make every second count; while he tried his hardest to butter Angela up, I lagged behind with Sam, quietly swapping ideas on what we could be looking at.

As we near the motel, I tune back into Dean’s conversation just in time to hear him say, “Yeah, I love kids! Kids are awesome.”

I choke back something between a laugh and a snort. “Oh my god.”

Sam hears me and chuckles. Dean either doesn’t hear me or ignores me altogether, continuing to chat with Andrea until I physically step between the two of them and shoo Dean off to get us a room.

“You’re just jealous,” Dean teases as he ambles off towards the office.

“You wish,” I call after him before turning back to Andrea. “Sorry about that. And, uh, thanks…for walking us two blocks. I’m sure it was an inconvenience.”

“It’s fine,” she assures me with a small smile. “If you need anything else, then have my dad contact me. And good luck with the investigation; what happened to Sophie was terrible.”

I nod gravely, glancing up as Dean steps out of the motel office.

Andrea bids us goodbye, and after getting the cars from the Sheriff’s Office, Sam, Dean, and I drop our bags in Room #16 and get out our laptops and notebooks.

“So…the mysterious drowning of Sophie Carlton,” I begin, taking a seat at the table and grabbing my notebook. “She drowned…or at least we _think_ she did, because there’s no body. Maybe something ate her.”

“There would’ve been more evidence of blood,” Sam challenges, sitting across from me. “And her brother said there had been no screaming. If something was gnawing on her legs, there’d be screaming.”

I nod, sigh, and cross ‘man-eating monster’ off my list.

“What about a curse?” Dean asks, cross-legged on one of the beds with a bag of chips. “Maybe someone had it out for Sophie, decided to gank her while she wasn’t expecting it.”

“Maybe…” I trail off, tilting my head. “Doesn’t it seem kinda hit-or-miss though? I mean, what are the odds that someone would know Sophie would be swimming today, at that _exact_ time? Her brother said her routine varies.”

“It could happen,” Dean insists stubbornly. I roll my eyes but scribble down a few more notes.

And so it went. Someone would suggest an idea, someone else would shoot it down, and we’d make more notes.

Hours passed, and we didn’t get anything concrete besides what might be a curse, or a monster fish of some sort, or a water wraith… _if_ those existed.

“Ugh,” I groan, rubbing my temples as I lean back in my chair. “I can’t take anymore.”

“Ditto,” Sam grunts, momentarily picking his head up off the table before setting it down again.

“I might throw up if I read another word.”

“Not on my book, you won't,” Dean protests, passing by the table to scoop the nearest book and gently setting it down before face-planting on the bed. “I’m hungry.”

Sam mutters his agreement, and I sigh again before shoving my chair back and standing, wincing as my stiff knees creak.

“I’ll make a run,” I offer, looking around for my jacket. “The usual fare?”

I get two grunts and a quiet “Thanks,” from Dean before I snatch my jacket and head for the door.

Once I get onto the sidewalk, I pick a direction and start walking, figuring that I’d eventually find a diner either way.

I navigate the streets for about five minutes before rounding a corner and scaring a flock of pigeons, causing them to scatter.

“Lucas! No!”

I look up, recognize the kid currently running towards the street after the scattered birds, and reach down to grab him before I even realize what I’m doing.

“Lucas,” Andrea pants as she catches up with her son. “Don’t ever do that again. I’m so sorry about that,” she apologizes to me as I let go of Lucas. “He likes to chase the birds. He’s always running around like a little madman.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I dismissively wave a hand, keeping an eye on the ten-year-old, just in case. “Reminds me of someone I knew once, actually.”

Andrea, thankfully, doesn’t ask, instead just humming her agreement and shifting her grip on Lucas, who was determined to get away. “Lucas, stay still, we can go to the park later.”

“I can walk with you,” I offer hesitantly. “I was on a dinner run anyway.”

The other woman nods, leading me across the street and a short walk away to a park, where she lets Lucas free, albeit while keeping a close eye on him.

“You know, you should probably tell your friend that his little Jerry Maguire act isn't going to work.”

“Wh – oh, Dean.” I shake my head, laughing. “He’s harmless, I promise. Besides, he’d never make any serious moves on a taken woman, he knows better than that.”

Andrea looks over at me, confused. “I’m sorry?”

It takes me a moment to realize my error, but when I do, the mortification hits me like a tidal wave.

“Oh my god,” I mutter. “I am so sorry. I just thought – with-” I glance at Lucas. “I didn’t mean to assume.”

“No, it’s fine,” she assures me. “You’re not the first to jump to conclusions. I was married once – his name was Chris…Chris Barr. Lucas’ father.”

I nod, noting the past tense but deciding, as she had with my earlier remark, not to comment.

“I’d better be getting home,” she announces a few seconds later. “It’s getting dark. Have a good day, Agent…?”

“Kelly, but call me Leia,” I correct. “Hey, do you think you could point out a decent diner?”

Andrea gives me directions to a place not far from the park before bidding me goodbye and collecting her son. I set off in the opposite direction, walking until I find a little hole-the-wall place that, apparently, was a favorite among locals.

After ordering three cheeseburger combos and a soda for myself, I begin making my way back to the motel.

Only to be stopped again – this time, not by a child chasing birds, but by a far more chilling sight: red and blue flashing lights, accompanied by police tape.

Setting the bags down, I quickly flash my badge – thankfully still in my pocket – and get the information I needed out of the attending police officer before grabbing the bags of food and taking off for the motel.

I barge through the door not five minutes later, Sam and Dean looking up in shock as I set the food on the table and shuck my jacket.

“There’s a new crime scene,” I pant before either brother could speak.

“Another victim?” Sam asks, sounding mildly surprised.

I nod grimly.

“Will Carlton is dead.”


End file.
